


Ameliorate

by IwillbeReichenbach



Series: Aberrate [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst, Caring Greg Lestrade, Caring Mycroft Holmes, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Drug Use, Gen, Graphic Description, Hospitals, Hurt, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Injury, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Origin Story, POV Multiple, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock meets Lestrade, Sickfic, Triggers, Whump, male rape victim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2020-10-12 11:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20563532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: Sherlock has been  the victim of a violent sexual assault while having a rare night out from studying.  He fights to cope with the attack, to heal and to bring his attacker to justice with the help of Mycroft and Lestrade.Thank you the wonderful Sandrina, without her this would be a mass of typos, bad grammar and confusion.  I still take all responsibility for all the remaining mistakes.





	1. Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Development](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037437) by [fireofangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireofangels/pseuds/fireofangels). 

> This story takes the basic idea from Development by fireofangels. A great little story that inspired me to write a missing scene. That missing scene grew into a full blown story. 
> 
> Please check the tags. This story deals closely with the aftermath of a violent rape situation, it does not look away where other stories might. Some might find it tough going. Please look after yourself, especially if this is a subject that you might find triggering.

“Sharp scratch.” The paramedic said out of habit, as he inserted the cannula into the back of Sherlock’s limp and clammy hand. His patient had not regained consciousness since he having collapsed while the policeman tried to help him through the bar and into the ambulance.

Sherlock, disorientated and confused, came awake suddenly at the pain in his hand. He strained against the safety straps that were holding him to the stretcher as he swiped clumsily at the oxygen mask that covered his face. Tearing the cannula from the other man’s grip before he had a chance to secure it. Sherlock’s eyes blind with terror as the memories of the previous hours flooded his mind. He had forgotten he had ever left the bar and still thought he needed to fight for his life. Blood splattered from the back of his hand as he struggled, leaving a line of small red dots across the front of the paramedic’s uniform.

“Take it easy Sherlock. You’re going to be ok. We’re taking you to the hospital to get you checked out.” The paramedic said in his most soothing voice. 

Straining hard against the safety straps but now still, no longer struggling, Sherlock looked at him. Saw him properly for the first time. The drugs in his system were making his thinking slow but he made himself focus on the man beside him. He wore a uniform, was middle aged, had been quite fit once but was starting to spread around the middle a bit, had brown hair that was thinning at the front and a wore a wedding ring and had a kind face. Not a threat. More specifically not the threat. Not his best assessment of somebody, but under the circumstances it was the best he could do. 

“You have to relax. You’ll hurt yourself worse. Please don’t make me put you in restraints. Neither of us wants that. Just lie back and let us look after you.” 

If there was one thing on this earth that Sherlock didn’t want right now, it was to be restrained. He nodded in acceptance. 

“I’m ok now. Sorry. I just...” he trailed off. Not sure what he even meant to say. He slowly leaned back onto the thin padding of the stretcher. His ribs screaming. Pain in full force now that the panic had receded. One night away from uni, one night out with a mate, one night of trying to have normal social interactions and where had it landed him? In the back of a bloody ambulance.

The Paramedic looked away for a moment then did a small chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asked affronted and confused by the paramedic’s response. 

“Got a fright.” 

“Yeah.” Sherlock agreed absently, then realised he truly didn’t understand when the Paramedic chuckled again. “Wait, what? Who?”

“Me. You scared the crap out of me. Sitting up like Frankenstein with no warning at all. I just about had a heart attack. Where would we have been then?” The paramedic said with a proper laugh. 

“His monster.” Sherlock corrected as his eyes fluttered closed, everything still hurt but he felt a bit less rattled after the ambulance officer’s jest. 

“What’s that?” 

“Not Frankenstein, his monster. Frankenstein, he was the, the creator.” God, he could hardly get the words out.

“Really. Wow. I never knew that. All these years I thought the weird dude with the bolts in his neck was Frankenstein.”

“Most people do. Idiots. Not how, how Mary Shelly wrote it.” Sherlock said, his speech as muddled as his brain was.

“Who’s that?”

“Read more books.” Sherlock muttered unable to keep his eyes open. The paramedic adjusted the oxygen mask back into position. The last thing he heard was the paramedic telling him to rest, that they’d be at the hospital soon. 

The hospital was, in fact, the next thing Sherlock was aware of. A bright light was being shined into his eyes. The light was like splinters stabbing into his pounding head, he tried to scrunch his eyes shut. This just made his nose hurt something fierce and his cheek as well. A blood pressure cuff tightened around his arm with the hiss of air pressure, someone clipped something onto his fingertip, someone else was running scissors up the side of his jeans. He tried to grab at the remaining fabric to maintain some dignity and privacy, but his cold hands would not cooperate properly, and he just ended up fumbling pointlessly as they took his remaining clothing. He felt cold and sick and overwhelmed by the bright lights and pain and the activity around him. And he felt confused, unable to focus on any one person, they seemed to whirl around him. 

“Sherlock.” Someone said his name, trying to get his attention. He looked around the room slowly, unable to make his gaze shift any faster, until he saw someone looking down at him. She was short and had a streak of purple in her hair and she was the only person who was looking directly at him. When his eyes settled on hers, she began speaking again. “Hi there, my names Nancy, I’m a nurse here. We are going to look after you. Try to relax.”

He was fed up with being told that, but he nodded because he couldn’t think what else to do. 

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Nancy asked him. 

“Sure.” He slurred in reply. Shocked by how his own voice sounded. What had he been given? 

“Where does it hurt?” 

“Head hurts.”

“Yeah, I bet it does.” She said kindly, it was obvious his nose had been bleeding and the bruising was already coming out under his left eye and there was a large gash on the right side of his forehead just below the hairline. Most of his face was bruised or bloodied or both. It wasn’t a stretch to assume that he had a splitting headache. “Anywhere else?”

“Yeah, all over.” Sherlock said his eyes drifting shut, then as an afterthought he said. “Lower back, kidneys hurt, punched hard. Hurts to breathe. Cold. Very cold.”

His attention drifted to the doctor then, he heard him barking orders for a renal CT and for them to monitor urine output via a Foley. Sherlock groaned and wondered if the night could get any worse. 

“Look at me Sherlock.” The nurse demanded in a soft voice, as his attention drifted. He wondered if she had been speaking to him and he’d missed the words. “Were you drinking, did you take anything?”

“No, nothing.” He said. He flinched in pain as someone touched his right knee. He had forgotten it was even injured until then. 

“Your medical history mentions you have a history of using drugs and you seem a bit… altered.” She said uncertainly.

“Not this time.” Sherlock said, he’d have been angry if everything wasn’t so fuzzy. “I think he. In my drink, lemonade, only lemonade. Put something in it. Just lemonade. I think he did. Only thing that makes sense. Maybe. Don’t know, all fuzzy.”

“Ok, we are doing a blood test. We will figure it out.” Nancy said as Sherlock’s eyes wondered lazily around the room. There was still lots of activity as a doctor continued to order a range of test and screens and medications that weren’t likely to react badly to the hereto unknown drug Sherlock had been given. Pain killers, he hoped as something deep in his abdomen clenched, causing another wave of agony. A nurse brought in a warmed blanket and draped it over him. It felt wonderful. He was so cold, colder than he had ever been. He clutched at the edge of it and held it to his bare chest. The doctor looked pointedly at Nancy and she glanced back to Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, I need to know something. I’m sorry to ask,” she said softly. He knew what was coming. “Were you sexually assaulted?”

Sherlock shut his eyes and breathed out. It hurt his ribs. 

“Yes,” he whispered. 

He did not see Nancy clench her jaw, frowning deeply at the answer she had hoped not to hear. He vaguely heard Nancy speaking to the doctor. Something about ‘imaging’ and ‘delays’ and ‘getting the ball rolling.’ 

Nancy touched his shoulder lightly and he flinched at the unexpected contact. Why did everyone have to keep touching him?

“Sorry. Listen, Sherlock. We would like to call in a sexual assault examiner, that’s a nurse who is trained to collect forensic evidence. You need to know the procedure is time consuming and invasive, but the results might help the police to catch the person who did this to you and make sure that they are charged with the crime. We can stop at any time if it gets too much. Would that be ok with you if I call her in?”

They were speaking to him like he was weak, afraid, stupid. He was never weak or afraid and rarely stupid. ‘Thing is,’ he thought, ‘I’m afraid now and my body feels weak and my mind stupid.’ He wished he could shake off the fuzzy feeling; he could deal with this if he could just think.

“Yeah, yeah ok.” Sherlock agreed uncertainly and Nancy nodded at the doctor who left to make the call. Sherlock wanted him caught and locked up, even if it meant he had to go through hell to make it happen. 

“Would you like us to call someone for you?” Nancy asked

“No.” Sherlock said alarmed, his eye opened wide at he thought. “Don’t. Don’t want anyone to....” He let his voice trail off. 

“You’re allowed to have someone with you through the examination for support. I would recommend it. If you don’t want a family member or a friend, we can get a nurse to stay with you. Would you prefer that?”

“You.” Sherlock stated without thinking. He definitely didn’t want his parents and he couldn’t stand the thought of his judgemental, interfering brother seeing him like this. He really didn’t have any friends that he could rely on. He had come to trust her somewhat in the few minutes they had spoken. She seemed as good a choice as anyone. Someone leaned over his head, cleaning the gaping wound there, it stung as did the local anaesthetic he injected. 

“Ok, I’ll be there with you.” She said gravely, he had seemed a bit dismissive to her, so she had not expected the request. “Rest a while, press this button if you need anything or ask Henry.” She said nodding towards the man that was placing the first of eight stiches in the deep cut on his forehead. “You will probably be taken up to imaging first just depends on who is ready to see you first.” She pressed a button into his palm and left the room. As soon as she was gone, he wanted to call her back, but he felt foolish, so he shut his eyes and tried to shut his mind.

The drugs drew him into a deep sleep but only briefly. It felt like only a moment later that Nancy was back to take him to the imaging department. He thought it was nice of her. It was probably an orderly’s job. He had thought it would be tedious but by the time the elevator arrived at their floor he was sleep again, exhaustion and chemicals taking over his usually endless energy. He was oblivious to most of the process as they x-rayed or scanned most of his body, only coming back to awareness when the technicians wanted to have him change position or to move him onto the narrow MRI table. Even the loud thrum of the MRI machine couldn’t keep him from lapsing into a deep sleep.

He was in a different room next time awareness came back to him. If anything, be felt worse than he had earlier, and he was no warmer. His vision swam and he closed his eyes again. Nausea. Concussion, he thought vaguely, or was that a symptom of the drugs too? The bed was positioned so that he was sitting up slightly, it was more comfortable to breathe like that, but he still felt awful. When he shifted, he could feel the stickiness of the tape that held the catheter tubing to his thigh. Nancy was nearby. He could smell her perfume; it smelled a bit like apples. It was subtle and normally he would have liked it, but now it made his stomach roll. 

“Nancy?” He mumbled, keeping his eyes shut. 

“I’m right here Sherlock. We are about to get started.” She said softly, she introduced the other woman, but Sherlock immediately forgot her name. “There is a bit of paperwork to fill out, so there are some questions to ask you.” 

Sherlock did not want to answer questions. He wanted oblivion. He was tired and everything hurt. His body and his mind.

The other woman spoke gently in a voice that was a bit deeper than he had expected it to be. “Hey, Sherlock, I know you’re not feeling well, and I know it’s hard, but can you describe what happened to you tonight?” 

Sherlock sighed; he didn’t know how much detail she wanted. He hoped she didn’t want much. He would rather that he never had to speak of it at all. He wanted this over with, so he figured he’d best get to the point. He blinked his eyes open but couldn’t make himself look at her as he spoke. The words ran out, almost as if he couldn’t control them. “I think he spiked my drink. Led me outside. His hands, he touched me, down my pants. I tried to get away. Beat me up. Tried to fight back. Tried. Couldn’t but I tried. Pushed me on the floor, ground.” 

He paused; knew he was making a mess of explaining it. He couldn’t organise his words or his thoughts. Mostly he didn’t want to say it out aloud, knew he had to. “He raped me.”

Phillipa sat by his side on a small stool with wheels and she leaned on a clip board to quickly write on the document using the exact word he used to describe the attack. She could see how affected he was by the drugs, could hear it in his thin voice so she didn’t want to push him in to describing the attack in too much detail. She only needed enough information to know which evidence to collect and from where. The police could get a statement from him later, when he was in better condition physically. Collecting the physical evidence was best done as soon as possible and so long as his condition stayed stable it was their immediate priority. 

“Ok, thank you. Now I’m really sorry but I…”

“Just get to the point. Stop being so damn delicate.” He snapped at her. His fear, embarrassment, pain and shame turning to anger. Anger was easier to process, to express. She did not take offence though, if anything his desire to be direct made her job easier, quicker.

“How many attackers were there?” She asked, knowing the questions sounded blunt. 

“Just one.” He couldn’t believe that just one person had been able to do this to him, to overpower him so easily. He had tried to fight, but the drugs had made him clumsy and weak. 

“And you said it was a man, is that right?”

“Yes.” He snapped.

“I need to know exactly where and how he touched you. So, we know where to collect the evidence.” 

Sherlock shrunk then. His anger gone, the fear returning with the vivid memory of his attacker’s hands on his body, his breath blowing in his face, the smell, stinking of alcohol and strange cigarettes. The pain when he had… Stop. He needed to stop thinking about it. Needed to stop his brain from going there.

“He, umm, he… Jesus. He….” He paused, bravado gone, unwilling or unable to go on. He wasn’t sure which, perhaps both. Nancy gripped his left hand, the one with the dark bruise from the blown vein courtesy of his struggle in the ambulance and gave it a reassuring squeeze. It was like a lifeline to him. He took a shallow breath and tried to send the memories away. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” 

Thankfully Phillipa, a veteran on sexual assault examinations, had seen every reaction there was to see. “That’s ok. We can do this a different way. I’ll talk you through it. Just answer yes or no. Ok?”

“Ok.” 

Methodically she began asking about all the possible ways that he could have been assaulted.

“Did his mouth touch your mouth?”

“No.” Was all he said in a detached voice that belied the storm of emotions that were just beneath the surface. It was like his thoughts and his voice no longer connected. The thoughts in his head said much more – He didn’t kiss me, thanks for avoiding the word kiss though. 

“Did he bite or lick you anywhere?”

“No.” I don’t think so, he thought not trusting his brain. 

“Did he use his hands to touch your penis?”

“Yes,” and he told me I wanted it.

“Did he use his hands to touch your anus?”

“Yes.” Don’t let your mind go there, don’t think about it.

“Did his fingers penetrate your anus?” 

“Yes.” He tried not to remember but he was unable to regulate his memories the way he usually could. They came unwelcome and unbidden. My god, it had hurt, he thought before he could get control of the images that flashed in his mind. That’s when he had known, really known how bad the situation was. 

“Did his penis touch your mouth?” 

“No.” Sherlock shuddered and for the first time tonight he felt like he had been spared something worse. He sent those thoughts away too. 

“Did his mouth touch your penis?”

“No.”

“Did his penis touch your penis?”

“No.” How fucked up are human beings for that to be one of the questions?

“Did his penis touch your anus?”

“Yes.” That’s how fucked up. 

“Did his penis penetrate your anus?”

“Yes.” Pain, searing god-awful pain. The slapping of skin on skin. His face pushed into the rough square pavers. Disbelief, revulsion, shame. God, he wanted to vomit. He broke out in a cold sweat. 

“Did he use any foreign objects to touch or penetrate you?”

“No.” Still answering in a dull emotionless voice but again, he managed to feel fortunate for a brief moment.

“Did you ejaculate during the assault?”

He couldn’t answer for a long moment, he couldn’t even breath. He just gasped like a fish out of water. If the questions were this awful, he wasn’t sure he could bare they actual evidence collection. How could she ask him to say it out aloud? She is only asking so she knows to eliminate your DNA, his brain delivered. Now that he was outwardly panicking his brain seemed to be suppling clear thoughts again. His hands were shaking, he was shaking all over. He could feel a tear burn a track down his cheek. He swiped it away angrily. His shoulder protesting at the movement. The pain grounded him enough that he managed to take a breath that shuddered and nod his head once. It was the only way he could answer. 

“What you are feeling is normal, but I need you to know that it’s the body’s natural reaction and it does not mean that…”

“Yes, I know.” He snapped, anger helping him find his voice amongst the panic. “Pressure and friction. I know it doesn’t mean that I … I liked it.” He forced some air into his lungs. His head was spinning again. He thought he might vomit.

There was an awkward silence in the room, everyone too afraid to say anything. The nurses shared a glance and silently agreed to give him a moment. He had almost seemed detached, sure he had been edgy and irritable but until that moment they had not seen the emotional impact of the event of the evening. 

“Can we move on?” He asked after a pause. 

“Is there anything else you would like to add?” 

He shook his head. Wasn’t that enough. More than enough. More than anyone should ever have reason to account. 

“Would you like to take a break?”

“No. Keep going.” He wanted this over. 

“Nancy, his clothing was it removed in emergency?” The nurse asked, trying to give Sherlock a reprieve from the relentless questions. 

“Yeah, Phillipa, it’s in that plastic bag.” Nancy pointed to a bag that had been placed a bench at the side of the room. Her name was Phillipa, Sherlock remembered a friend of his mother’s. Her name was Phillipa too. She used to bring Vanilla Danishes when she visited. 

“Sherlock,” Phillipa said to get his attention, he had started to drift again, the drugs dragging him away from distress and into lassitude. “Do you consent to your clothing being submitted for evidence? You might not get them back and if you do, they might be damaged by the testing process.”

“That’s fine.” He never wanted to see any of it again. “Don’t want to have it, get it back.” 

Sherlock rested his eyes, shutting out the bright lights were making him see double, as Phillipa logged and prepared his clothing. Unpackaging it carefully and laying it out on a double layer of clean white paper. 

“There was no shirt?” Phillipa asked.

“He didn’t come in with one, just his jeans, underwear, socks and shoes. Oh, and his phone, his watch and wallet. They are in that bag over there.” Nancy answered pointing to a smaller bag on the counter. Sherlock was grateful for her being here. He didn’t want to speak. 

Phillipa made a note to ask the police if the shirt had been found at the scene and already logged for evidence or if it was really missing. 

She returned her attention to the clothing; documenting every tear and stain and bit of debris. She diligently photographed everything before folding it neatly with more paper between the layers and packing it into a sealed and signed paper bag. 

“Next we are going to examine and document all your injuries.” Phillipa said. Nancy squeezed his hand. Sherlock groaned a reply but did not open his eyes. 

Methodically, working from his head to his toes, Phillipa photographed, documented and described every bruise and laceration, every mark on his skin or area he proclaimed to be painful to the touch. She was careful to keep as much of him covered by blankets as she could. Desperate to allow him some dignity and some warmth as she documented the long list of injuries. Multiple lacerations and bruises to the face, including suspected facial fractures to the nose and left cheek bone. They were just waiting on the results from x-ray. Bruising to the neck, probably a handprint by the look of it. Bruising to the upper right-side thorax and lower left-side thorax with suspected rib fractures, again waiting on imaging. Swollen right shoulder; suspected soft tissue injury. Bruised right elbow and right wrist. Abrasions and bruising to the knuckles; especially to the right hand, broken fingernails on both hands. Extensive bruising to the lower lumbar area including suspected kidney damage. Bruising to the abdominal area, and the right thigh in the shape of a handprint. Bruising to the genital area, anal tearing. Abrasions and bruising to both knees and a deep laceration to the right knee. 

Many of these injuries they had begun treating in the emergency room or were awaiting the imaging results to decide on the best course of treatment. The process of documenting the injuries was slow and tedious. Phillipa carefully photographing, sketching then onto body map and carefully listing every mark on his body. Sherlock faded in and out of awareness. Not really caring what or where he was injured. Only drifting back to the surface to move when asked or to answer questions about how an injury had occurred. Often, he wasn’t sure, but occasionally he was able to mutter a reply such as; ‘he headbutted me’ or ‘he hit my head against the fence’ or ‘he twisted my arm behind my back’.

When they had asked him to roll over to see the injuries on his back, he had passed out from the pain, he thought that it was unfortunate that he came back to consciousness only moments later. Then he had a panic attack. The position too much of a reminder of the attack. He breathed though it, telling himself it was over now. Ignoring the pain in his chest, just above his right nipple where he was certain that there was a broken rib. Nancy silenced the alarms on the monitors as his heart rate rocketed. Phillipa asked if he wanted a break. He told her to get on with it. She went through the process of logging and photographing as quickly as possible and they both helped him return to his original position. 

Urine samples were taken from the collection bag and more blood samples were taken. Phillipa tore out strands of his hair, shifting his head from side to side and forwards to get hair from all over his head. Some of his hair was matted with blood and it stuck to her gloves. She put the gloves in the evidence envelope and put on new ones before pulling more strands out. He wanted to hiss at her. 

“I can see you fought hard Sherlock; did you scratch him?” Phillipa asked looking over his hands. His nails were torn and broken, and dirt and grim was pushed deep under each nail. 

“I don’t, can’t remember. Maybe.” His brow furrowed as he spoke. He had never felt so unsure of himself. 

“That’s ok. I will do some swabs of your hands and scrape under your nails, just in case.” She laid out more paper squares under his filthy left hand and used separate dampened swabs to run across his palms and under each of his fingernails. Sherlock watched on absently as the cotton snagged and pulled on his broken fingernails. Then she scrapped the dirt and debris out from under each of his nails and collected everything in a white envelope. Then repeated the process with his right hand. It felt intimate and uncomfortable being handled like this. He didn’t know why this bothered him after everything else that had happened. He hated the way her gloved hands gripped his skin. As she scrapped under the nail of his right index finger a stabbing pain shot up his arm, he grunted and withdrew his hand, the movement almost involuntary. 

“Sorry.” He muttered and gave his hand back to her. Again, she tied, assuming it was the ragged nail that had caused him the pain, it was broken off low down and there was blood as well as dirt. Again, he flinched back. It was her turn to apologise. 

“Sorry, I think there may be a splinter or something under the nail, I should have been more careful. We will do the other nails and come back to that one.” Phillipa said as she moved onto the next fingernail. Sherlock’s mind drifted as she finished her work. He couldn’t help it; he had no ability to focus. He was so tired. 

The sting of antiseptic solution deep under the nail on his index finger brought his mind back into focus. Now that his hand was clean, he could see the dark splinter pushed well under the nail, a dark streak that ran almost to the quick. He was surprised that he had not even felt it until now. Something like that should be painful, he thought. 

“Pull it out.” He said in a voice so slurred that did not sound like his own.

“Wouldn’t you rather wait for a doctor, perhaps some anaesthetic to dull the pain.” 

He almost laughed at that. As if a tiny bit more pain would make a difference now. 

“No, just do it, you’ll want, want it to, umm, for the evidence anyway.”

Phillipa nodded as she gripped his wrist firmly and Sherlock tried to keep his mind in the present. Tried not to think of his wrist being pinned by the larger man. The tweezers struggled to grip the nub of the splinter and it took three short pulls to tear it loose. The first two barely moving it but the last one had a good grip and in an instant the splinter was out, followed by a good deal of blood and cursing. Nancy bandaged it up while Phillipa logged the splinter as evidence. She doubted it would be important to the case, but it was her job to decide what was important or not, it was her job to diligently document everything. 

Sherlock wanted to rest, he wanted the pain and the humiliation to be over, but it seemed that the process just went on and on, relentless torment of questions and collections and paperwork and misery. 

Then it got worse. They helped him turn on to his side, right leg hitched up high, Nancy holding the back of his knee. Her gloved hands caught and gripped his skin and the hairs on his leg with a reptilian texture and there was a deep pain from the gash on his knee as it started to bleed again. He tied to focus on the unpleasant feeling of the gloves against his skin as Phillipa inspected and took swabs from his genitals. He mostly succeeded until the feeling reminded him of how the gloved hands had felt against his penis as the catheter had been inserted. He wished everyone would stop touching him. He didn’t even shake hands with strangers, but today everyone was welcome to touch his cock. Then Phillipa began to inspect his anus. She described each stage of the process, in a voice that was supposed to sound soothing, as she took photographs externally and then internally with a specialised camera. The muscles in his stomach and lower back clamping and spasming again. Warm moisture oozed down his leg. He did not care to know what it was, his imagination told him everything he needed to know. The process caused considerable pain that made it impossible to focus on his knee, to think about anything except for the brutal events that had led him to this moment. The inability to focus his mind felt like failure. Everything did in that moment. He gasped in pain as Phillipa removed the camera. He started to suspect considerable damage had been done during the attack. Especially when Phillipa suggested sending a copy of the images to his doctor. This was like being assaulted all over again. He felt vulnerable, violated and exploited, spread open like that, his humiliation there for the world to see. Then she took the swabs. Four externally, four on his thigh were blood and semen had dried and four internally, until there were rows of carefully labelled Styrofoam cups on the bench. Each cup was upside down and had the swabs pushed into the base, so they stood up tall. All waiting to be packed away in envelopes when they had dried. The tips of each a different colour from the others; from almost black, to blood red, to peach, to white and the dirt brown ones from his hands. He watched the collection grow and he hated every moment. His heart rate high as he clutched Nancy’s free hand desperate for something to ground him. 

Next, Phillipa combed through his pubic hair with a cheap fine-toothed plastic comb that snagged and pulled at his dark curly hair. She used small scissors to snip away sections of hair that were matted with died and drying semen and then combed some more, shepherding everything that combed away and the finally the comb itself into another of her paper envelopes. 

Finally, when everything was dried and packaged and sealed and signed, and when Sherlock was at his wits end with the procedure, just before handing the evidence over the policeman who had been waiting outside the door, she reassured him that he was being tested for all the possible sexually transmitted diseases and had already begun precautionary treatment for many of the potential diseases including HIV. He hadn’t considered that until now. Her reassurances just brought new fears.


	2. Sherlock Holmes

He just wanted to sleep forever. He wanted this whole awful night to be over. They had taken him to another room after they had finished the sexual assault examination. Finally, he had been left alone to rest. He could tell that there was room enough for a second patient in this room, in the area on other side of the curtain. He couldn’t hear any breathing or any monitors to compete with the sounds from his own. He was relieved to be alone; it would be disconcerting to think that there could be someone else so close, someone that he couldn’t see, couldn’t identity. He soon dozed off; cold and uncomfortable but unable to keep his eyes open. It seemed like only moments later that Nancy was back, squeezing his good shoulder to wake him again. 

“Leave me alone.” He mumbled into the pillow. He was so tired and uncomfortable and acutely aware that he was still naked beneath the blankets. Maybe that was why he was so cold.

“I am sorry Sherlock; I know you want to rest.” Nancy said in her soft voice. “There is policeman here to see you. He says he was there when the ambulance picked you up. He says it’s important, but I can tell him to come back tomorrow if you want.”

Sherlock remembered the man. Dark hair, neatly styled, wearing a cheap suit that was relatively new and an old tie and a battered wedding ring. Traditionally handsome. He was kind, he helped me get up, Sherlock thought, he hadn’t acted disgusted, even when he realised what had happened to me. Sherlock couldn’t remember getting into the ambulance though. He tried to, strained for the memory that must be there. He remembered the policeman helping him up, holding him up with strong arms, warm hands against his bare skin, walking him towards the door, the bar lit up bright, brighter than it had been earlier in the evening. Every step was agony. He had felt faint and short of breath. Had he passed out? He didn’t know. His memories shuffled and he couldn’t grasp the ones he wanted. The man had introduced himself, his name started with G. It was a short name; Gary, Grant, George? Sherlock gave up. His head hurt too much. 

“Send him in.” Sherlock said not sure that he could say awake but thinking he owed it to the man to try. 

“Ok, but if it gets too much, just press your call button and I’ll show him out.” Nancy told him as she helped him to adjust the bed into a more upright position, then she left. 

A moment later the man entered. He looked uncertain for a moment but then proceeded to the corner of the room to fetch a chair that rested there. It gave Sherlock a moment to look him over. He had changed out of his suit jacket and was wearing a police issue jacket with three downwards pointed chevrons on the shoulder. It looked warmer than the suit jacket, but Sherlock suspected the change might not have been so much due to the weather but rather because he had gotten blood all over the other jacket.  
As he settled the chair beside Sherlock’s bed and sat down, he looked at him with a gaze that was intense and searching but not threatening. Now that he was closer Sherlock could make out an embroidered label on the front of the jacket marking the wearer as Lestrade. 

“Hi there, Sherlock. Do you remember me from earlier?”

“Yes, I do Detective Sargent Lestrade.” Sherlock replied. He didn’t remember exactly but he had pieced together enough information to come to that conclusion. He sounded more confident, composed than he felt.

“Good, wow, I wasn’t sure you’d remember. You were in pretty rough shape.” The detective said. “I have a few questions to ask you. I know you’re not feeling your best, but do you think you could try to answer a few?”

Sherlock nodded. He was shaking all over and he didn’t think it was just from the cold. He didn’t want to go through this again. 

“Do you remember what happened to you this evening?” Lestrade asked him doubtfully. 

“Yes.” Sherlock wished he didn’t. Then he wouldn’t have to speak about it.

“Did you see the person who did this to you?”

Sherlock started talking without being conscious of having decided to. “I spoke to him. Interesting. He was there, there all the time. There with a friend, me not him, he was alone. I talked to him. My friend left, I wanted to stay a bit longer. Interesting, he was interesting. Tall. Taller than me. Maybe six three. Not sure. Stocky, strong. He smokes. He was drinking. I wasn’t. Just lemonade. I think he, he put something in it. Maybe. I felt strange. Well dressed, he was well dressed, educated.” 

The words just tumbled out and he was sure he wasn’t making any sense. He looked down and realised that he was clutching the policeman’s hand. He didn’t even remember deciding to reach for it and now he was holding on as if it was a lifeline. 

“What was interesting about him?” The policeman asked gently, placing his free hand on top of Sherlock’s.

Sherlock paused. Looking more confused than he had. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Stupid. Stupid” 

“It’s not stupid, you’ve been under a lot of stress.” Lestrade said gently, the young man was clearly still altered from the drugs. It was becoming clear that he wasn’t going to be able to get a full statement from him, but he prompted him for a little more information. “You spoke to him. Did he tell you his name or where he lives or what he does?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

Lestrade nodded then prompted him to go on. “You were out the back of the bar?” 

“He took me outside. I just followed, knew something was wrong, but I followed him. Stupid. Smoked, then he…” Sherlock paused. He looked down at where their hands intertwined. He didn’t want to say it. Not here, not now, not to the detective. He was kind and gentle and nice. Sherlock wanted the detective to like him, that was strange. He never cared if people liked him or not. Usually it was easier if people didn’t. They stayed away if they didn’t like you.

Lestrade waited. He let the young man collect his thoughts. He would not force him to speak.

“He started touching me, told him I wasn’t interested. I must have missed something. I’m not good at stuff, social stuff. He…told me I wanted it. I didn’t. He hit me, again and again and again. I tried to fight but I couldn’t. Too fast. Too woozy. Couldn’t breathe.” 

Lestrade could see the bruising coming out around the young man’s neck and it was clear why he couldn’t breathe. 

“Threw me down. Held me down. I tried to get away. Kept trying right up until… then I, couldn’t. I just gave up. The pain...” Sherlock’s shaky voice paused. “Don’t make me say any more. Please. You know what happened next.”

“Ok, yeah that will do for now.” Lestrade said. “I’ll come back tomorrow and see if you have anything you’d like to add. 

Once the policeman left Sherlock felt ashamed of how little he was able to tell him. He knew more than that. He just couldn’t seem to organise his thoughts. It was all so bleary, and his mind seemed to be off kilter. He was coming back the next day and Sherlock vowed to do better. To tell him what he needed to know to catch the guy. For now, he just wanted to sleep. To sleep and to just be left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers. I am posting this chapter from the top of a hill way out in the Aussie bush. I've walked about three kilometres to get enough internets to publish this. Never say I'm not committed to getting a chapter published! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy making it happen.


	3. Mycroft Holmes

“Overdose?” Mycroft asked. His voice a little too loud in the silence of the hospital room. Mercifully, they had given Sherlock a private room, otherwise Mycroft was sure to have woken all in attendance. 

Sherlock lifted his head to see where and who the voice was coming from. Seeing who it was, he sunk back into the pillow, rolling his eyes. The starched pillowcase rustled. He winced in pain. 

“Not this time.” Sherlock said in a thick sticky voice. Side effect of the drug perhaps. 

“Really? I do doubt that.” Mycroft said his voice dripping with disbelief. “You cannot afford to miss any more classes. They will use any excuse to remove your enrolment. They do not want a dux with a criminal record.”

“I don’t care.” 

“You should care.”

“Caring is not an advantage.” Sherlock sounded tired, like he couldn’t even be bothered with the row, but even this strung out he put in a small effort to sound mocking. 

“Don’t quote me out of context. You know very well what I meant when I said that.” 

“Don’t tell me what I should care about.” 

“Someone has to, if this is how you are going to live your life.” Mycroft was tired too. Tired of arguing about the same things; finishing his degree, visiting their parents, getting clean, getting a job. He knew there was a question he had to ask, an important question because truth be told that was Mycroft’s biggest fear. Whether the overdose was accidental or deliberate, the outcome was still the same, but he couldn’t bear the thought that Sherlock wanted to kill himself. “Was it a deliberate overdose?” 

“Spiked my drink.” Sherlock mumbled in reply. 

“Bullshit.” Mycroft shouted, angry now. The lies were too much. Too often. “Take some responsibility for once!” 

Sherlock flinched. 

“This is futile. I can’t talk to you when you’re high. I’ll come back tomorrow. Do not think we are done here.” Mycroft turned to leave. Disgusted with his brother. Disgusted with his own anger boiling over. Too often his brother had put him thought this. The next of kin phone calls, the late-night rescue missions, the borrowed money, the turning up on his doorstep sloppy and desperate. Never an apology. Never any thanks. Just the begging to keep it from Mummy. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled, barely loud enough to be heard, but it was enough to pull his brother up short of the doorway. “Tomorrow. Could you bring some, bring me some clothes?”

“What happened to yours? Did you vomit all over them? Ruin them when you fell down?” Mycroft scowled, still facing the doorway as he spoke. Seething with anger.

“They, um, they took them.”

“Who took them Sherlock? Are clothing thieves common in London now?” Mycroft asked sarcastically, turning back towards his brother, ready for another attack. He had had enough. 

“They took them when… when they did the rape kit.” Sherlock replied in a detached voice, turning his face away as he spoke.

The fight went out of Mycroft then. How could he have been so stupid? The damage to Sherlock’s face, the bruising, the swelling, the stitches in his forehead. He had thought he had fallen, but of course he hadn’t. It was clear, when you looked, really looked, that there were multiple impacts. His anger, his assumptions had clouded his judgment. His stomach dropped at all the implications of the words Sherlock had spoken. 

“I’m so sorry, brother mine. I thought you fell.” He was back at Sherlock’s side in a moment, where he laid, eyes barely open, head tipped away. Shoulders slumped. Looking small and fail and all too still. That was part of what had scared Mycroft into anger. Each time he saw his brother like this he was convinced that he wouldn’t return to the vibrant incredible ridiculous lunatic he usually was. He usually had a vigorous energy that Mycroft had never been able to replicate, an openness and brash confidence that left Mycroft feeling insecure by comparison. But not now, now he was motionlessness as if lethargy held him in a prison and he looked afraid. 

“Saw. Not observed.” Sherlock muttered.

“Yes, brother. That’s very true.” That was so typically Sherlock that Mycroft allowed himself for just a moment, a small soft smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. 

Sherlock tried to roll away. Mycroft instinctively knew why; now that he knew what had happened, he could read it all on him now, every blow, every touch. He would be able to feel Mycroft’s gaze on him. Mycroft looked away, trying to spare his brother some pain tonight. Sherlock struggled for another moment then gave up, laying back, he couldn’t even roll over, too weak and in too much pain. 

“Are you hurt?” Mycroft asked, he knew the question was foolish, but he could think of little else to say.

“Don’t know. Doctors haven’t been in. Haven’t told me anything.” Sherlock said. His voice sounded so feeble.

“I’ll go now and talk to them. Surely they can make you more comfortable than this.” 

“Stay?” Sherlock asked weakly, reaching out with uncoordinated fingers. Asking seemed to cost him and he slumped further down in the bed. “Just please shut up.”

Mycroft sunk silently into the chair beside the bed and gently wrapped his brother’s offered hand in both of his. It did not escape him that the hand was covered in scrapes and bruises and blood. He had fought back, good for him, he thought. He was startled by how cold his brother’s hand was. He released his grip for a moment to pull the bed clothes up to his brother’s chin, covering all of his bare chest, before wrapping his hand in his own again. He knew how much it would have taken for Sherlock to ask him to stay. He was not inclined to ask for comfort. 

Mycroft sat, not noticing the hard chair, and watched his little brother sleep fitfully. Lost in his own thoughts. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before one of the nurses touched him lightly on the shoulder. He had been aware of them coming and going, checking his brother’s vital signs, waking him to ask inane questions to check that his concussion wasn’t worsening, getting mumbled and irritated replies, generally going about their business, but up until now they had respectfully ignored him. 

He glanced up at the small young woman. Her hair streaked in deep purple that denied how shy she was. 

“You’re family?” She asked. He wondered if she had just assumed or if she had been told by the reception clerk who had made him prove he was family before pointing him in the direction of the room. 

He nodded. “He’s my brother.”

“His tox screen has come back. It came back positive for Flunitrazepam. That’s the drug commonly…”

“I know what it is.” He cut her off tersely. It had not been much of a leap to suspect Rohypnol. 

After a curt pause she continued. “Now that we know what sedative was used and the amount in his system, we can give him some stronger pain relief. The pharmacist was reluctant to prescribe anything stronger without knowing. Similar drugs, like Ketamine, can supress breathing, especially if they are combined with analgesia and alcohol. His blood alcohol was zero by the way, he really hadn’t been drinking, that probably saved his life. He should be able to rest more comfortably with more suitable pain relief. Between the Flunitrazepam and the pain relief he will sleep until morning at the very least.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Mycroft scoffed, but the nurse ignored him and continued speaking.

“Visiting hours begin at 8 am. His doctor will be by shortly just after that to discuss his treatment options. He should have a decision on whether any surgical intervention is necessary. For now, he is stable and relatively comfortable. I suggest you go home and get some rest yourself. We will call you if anything changes.” She said, her voice firm.

“That’s not a suggestion is it?” 

“No, Sir. Visiting hours are long over. I’ll be back in a few minutes with his medication. I would recommend you make yourself scarce by then.” Mycroft was surprised at how this tiny shy human handled herself. She had a certain internal power about her, and he was glad that she was looking after Sherlock. He liked her instantly and respected her. Not something he often did.

“Could you please bring him another blanket? He is quite cold, I think.” 

“Of course.” She said scribbling a note to herself. 

“Thank you,” he glanced at her name badge, “Nancy. I appreciate you looking after him.” 

She nodded at him and left still writing in her notepad. He really did appreciate that she was the one caring for his brother. He just hoped Sherlock did too, he was not likely to be the easiest patient.

He turned back to Sherlock once they were alone. Sherlock lay still, his breathing even but his brow bunched in pain or distress. Even in sleep he could not escape this.

“I’m sorry this happened to you brother mine. Whatever you’ve done, you don’t deserve this, not one bit of it.” He whispered. Knowing that Sherlock was locked in the lasting effects of the drugs, knowing how hard it had been for the nurses to wake him, Mycroft took the opportunity to comfort him, or perhaps it was himself he was comforting. He brushed Sherlock’s hair back, still matted with dried blood and dirt, and pressed a feather light kiss on his forehead. He left then, hoping that tomorrow would see a return of his wild erratic nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter. They are both fairly short so I decided to publish an extra one but mainly I just couldn't wait for this one. It's one of my favourites.


	4. Greg Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is rather graphic, make good choices.

At about that same time that Mycroft left the hospital, Lestrade slumped down at his computer desk. It had been a long day and an even longer night, amongst many long days and long nights. They seemed to be all he had these days. Climbing his way through the police force was exhausting, every promotion promised more challenge, more pay, more privilege and more status, but each step came with more responsibility and longer hours. His wife’s tone used to be playful when she said she came after his job, lately it had been bitterness he detected in her tone. 

He tried to slip the USB stick into the side of his laptop, met resistance, cursed and flipped it over before the slot would accept it. It had been in his pocket since he’d requested it at the bar. He had tried not to think of this as he questioned the frightened dazed young man who had bravely tried to answer his questions but was too confused and drugged to be of much help. What evidence he gave was only enough to confirm what had happened. A suspected spiked drink and a brutal bashing followed by an unthinkable act. It was looking like the case would be made up of leg work and physical evidence, unless the boy remembered something helpful tomorrow. He really shouldn’t think of him as a boy, his identification proved that he was well and truly old enough to be at the bar, but he had such a youthful face, well, he did under the bruising that marred his pale features. 

It took a few moments to find a program that would play the format that the file was saved in. Then a few more moments for the file to load, before a grainy black and white image of the familiar bar courtyard jumped to the screen. The angle captured the picnic table on the left side of the frame. Shit, the camera must have recorded everything. Lestrade was torn between the sliver of excitement that they might have captured a useable image of the attacker and the deep dread of having to view the attack. 

His nerve gave out then. He decided that he needed a coffee. What he really needed was a moment to compose himself. 

When he settled back at his desk, he didn’t feel any more composed than he did before. He sipped at the cheap bitter instant coffee with its watery long-life milk. He didn’t know why they brought long-life milk, it always got used quickly. He sighed and clicked on the arrow that indicated he wanted the video to play. 

He skipped past footage of the young revellers who drank and smoked until it got too late or more likely too cold for them to be outside. Eventually the area became quiet, then deserted. 

It stayed that way for a while. Lestrade sipped his coffee. Maybe he should have had decaf, it was late but then he thought he was unlikely to sleep tonight anyway. Not after watching this.

Two men walked into view. Both staggering, but he knew one of them wasn’t drunk, but rather under the influence of something much more sinister. The smaller man, Sherlock, wore tight black jeans and a light-coloured shirt, white probably, that clung to his slight build. He would have to make sure that evidence had the shirt, he couldn’t remember seeing it at the scene, it had been chaotic. The boy would be lucky if he weighed 65 kilograms soaking wet, Lestrade thought, he had been light as a feather when he had helped him up, and only a little less light when he had lost consciousness, bringing them both down to the beer stained carpet in the bar. The other man was bigger, stronger, a bull of a man and clearly a bit drunk. Well-dressed as of for an office job, but shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Neither man had been dressed for the cold outdoor air. It had been warm in the bar, Lestrade remembered. 

The taller man led Sherlock to the picnic table, he shoved Sherlock playfully back onto the seat, then sat heavily beside him. They both sat with their backs to both the camera and to the table, facing towards a tall palling fence that surrounded the small garden. Sherlock leaned back against the table for support, his left arm braced against the seat to stop himself from wobbling over as he reached into his back pocket for something. Cigarettes. He took one and offered the crumpled packet to the other man, but he already had his own cigarette between his lips. Sherlock dropped the packet onto the table before fishing out the lighter. It appeared to take fierce concentration for him to line the flame up with the tip of the cigarette. He was already fairly out of it, Lestrade noted, as the other man lit his own cigarette. It looked like a normal situation. Two people at a bar smoking but he knew better. He knew what was coming and it tied his stomach in knots.

It was just as Sherlock had told him at the hospital as he clutched shakily at Lestrade’s hand. He’d been scared to say the words. Lestrade wondered again if anyone was with him. He hoped so. Sherlock had done well, all things considered, he had managed to describe what had happened and it fit with what Lestrade was seeing one the screen now. Even with the picnic table between them he could tell what was happening. They sat there, chatting and smoking, the video was soundless but Lestrade could see their mouths moving and once Sherlock laughed at the unheard words. Sherlock leaned a bit closer to the man and then without any warning the other man snaked his hand down between Sherlock’s legs. Rubbing at his crutch. Sherlock posture stiffened instantly, and he tried to stand up, to push him away, but the man gripped his thigh in a vice like grip and pushed him back to the seat. Lestrade was sure the photos they recorded when they took the rape kit would display a bruise for every fingertip. He had been brave to go through that too, most victims don’t want to, otherwise they get to the more invasive parts of the evidence collection and call a stop to the procedure. He hoped that by the morning Sherlock could not remember a moment of it. The drugs might help with that, at least, but that really depended on what he had been given.

On the screen the tall man leaned closer to Sherlock then, Sherlock tried to lean away as far as he could. Even though the video was soundless Lestrade knew he was whispering to Sherlock, could see his mouth move. Telling him he wanted this, was what Sherlock had reported. He was rubbing at his crouch again with a broad open palm. Then he gripped his crouch, Sherlock flinched. Lestrade’s stomach did a violent roll and clench. God, he hated this part of his job. He hoped again that his promotion to homicide went through, at least he wouldn’t have to face talking to those victims.

Sherlock made it to his feet this time. He half staggered and was half shoved against the fence. The man pressing up against his back. Sherlock threw his elbow back hard. Hitting the man in the ribs. It bent him over for a moment. Gave Sherlock a little space. Enough that he could half turn. His next move was genius, Lestrade thought. Sherlock flicked his cigarette into his face and then while he was distracted punched him in the jaw with a thundering jab from his left fist. It sent the bigger man reeling, dropping him down to one knee. 

Good shot. Lestrade though. Hope that leaves a mark. 

Clearly effected by the drugs Sherlock made two swaying steps towards escape, before the man was upon him again. In a rage now. He spun him back against the fence. Smashing his face against it repeatedly, three, four, five times with a fist in the long dark curls. Sherlock trying to push back, flailing but too uncoordinated to land a proper blow. The man spun him around. Holding him up by the throat, Sherlock face bloody and he was too dazed to support himself. Feet scrabbling for purchase as the man head butted him, his forehead connecting with the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. Lestrade imagined he could hear the crunch of bone on bone. The fist of the attacker’s free hand smashing into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock managed to land a kick to the man’s left shin and a solid punch to his guts. It hardly made any impact to the enraged man. The man gripped his shirt at the highest button, and in one downwards movement, ripped it open. Then he was fumbling with Sherlock’s belt, hand down his pants. Gripping his crutch by the look of it. A look of shock on the young man’s face. A look of horror. He scrabbled against the man with his fingernails, digging them deeply into the man’s skin on the back of his hands and forearm. Desperately trying to get away. He was head butted again, Sherlock just managing to turn his head a fraction. He blow caching him just under his left eye, his head bouncing back against the fence and then he went quite limp against the man. His attacker’s support the only thing that was stopping him from sliding to the ground. 

Lestrade wondered if his cheekbone was fractured, or his eye socket maybe. It had been a crunching blow. He was glad that there was no sound. His imagination was more than enough. Lestrade’s coffee was left to go cold. He was too disgusted to want it now. The attack had been violent and fast. The victim plucky but overpowered by strength and substance. 

The man twisted a hand down the back of Sherlock’s jean. Sherlock cried out. It was the first time he had looked panicked, the first time he had called out. Lestrade suspected he had penetrated him with rough dry fingers. Their faces were close together and Lestrade could see Sherlock trying to turn away, but he was held tightly by the throat. Gasping for air. Then a moment later he flung Sherlock to the ground. Sherlock landed heavily on his hands and knees and tried to crawl away, tried to use the table to pull himself up. Trying to hold his opened jeans up at the same time. The man caught him by the waist of his jeans and what was left of his shirt and stopped him. Pulled him away from the table and tugged his pants down around his knees. Sherlock still clawing at the pavers to try to escape. Then in one shove he pushed Sherlock’s face into the ground, his pale arse was in the air above his bent knees. The picnic table was partially between the camera and the men. Sherlocks face and shoulders were partly obstructed by the legs of the table, but Lestrade could see his eyes. Those startling pale eyes stared, unblinking. The attacker undid his own trousers with a frightening efficiently, freeing an erection that slapped him in the belly. Then he was punching at Sherlock’s lower back and flanks as he knelt behind him. Under the table Lestrade could make out Sherlock clawing at the ground in a futile attempt to get away as he was roughly penetrated. 

Lestrade paused the video. Spun his chair around to turn his back on the screen. He took a few deep ragged breaths. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest; hear the rush of it in his ears. 

‘Jesus,’ Lestrade thought, as bile rose up in this throat, ‘this fucking job. Watching this fucking horrible awful shit, knowing it happened just hours ago, this can go to hell.’ He took a few more deep breaths. He rubbed his face with both hands, knew putting it off was pointless so he turned back to the computer. Pressed play with a shaky hand on the mouse. 

It was as Sherlock had described it. The fight went out of him then. The man seemed to revel in it. His attacker twisted one arm cruelly up behind Sherlock’s back. Holding him down with it. Lestrade wondered how his shoulder had held together. It was effective at keeping Sherlock relatively still as the attacker pounded into him again and again and again. Used his other hand to hammer on his victim with one fist in time with his thrusts. Hitting him over and over in the back. ‘Kid will be pissing blood for weeks’ Lestrade thought. The pain must have been unbearable. 

It seemed to go on and on but when Lestrade glanced at the timer at the bottom of the video only a few minutes had passed. Undoubtably to Sherlock it had seemed like it went on for an age. He was completely still and if his eyes hadn’t been wide open Lestrade might have suspected he was unconscious. Then two things happened. Sherlock did a full body shudder and the attacker paused. He pulled Sherlock up on his knees, so that his back was against his chest. One meaty hand wrapped around his throat. The other arm was around Sherlock’s hips rubbing a spot just above a nest of dark pubic hair. Lestrade could see his lips moving. He wondered what cruel things he had said. He could see all of Sherlock now. He had a waning erection and a dead look in his eyes. The attacker sped up, hips snapping forwards and back with none of their previous rhythm. Sherlock’s curls bouncing with the force, the rest of his body held rigidly still as his attacker stuttered to a halt with his head thrown back. They stayed like that for a long moment. Lestrade could hear his own pulse booming in his ears.

Then he shoved Sherlock away from him. He fell heavily to the ground. Made no attempt to catch himself or to soften the fall. Lestrade was glad the table again obstructed his view and he didn’t need to watch Sherlock’s head bounce off the pavers.

The man tore Sherlock’s tattered shirt the rest of the way off as he stood up. Then kicked him over onto his side, his right arm, the one that had been pulled up behind his back, twisting beneath him at an awkward angle. Sherlock curled up instinctively to protect himself and again Lestrade could see his face in the grainy image. His eyes were scrunched shut in a wince of deep pain, his eyebrows nearly touching. The man used Sherlock’s white shirt to wipe himself off, blood showing up dark in the black and white image. He tucked his cock back into his pants and then knelt next to Sherlock. He rubbed the filthy shirt in his face, said something, then got up and sauntered off. Still carrying the shirt. 

“Did he take it with him?’ Lestrade wondered, investigative excitement overcoming horror for a few moments. He needed to know if it had been logged as evidence. He paused the video again and made a phone call to the officer that was running the forensic evidence collection at the scene. No shirt, just a few loose buttons. Where the hell was it? He told the man to get someone out there to look for it. To check all the rubbish bins in the area, even if it took all night. It had to be somewhere out there. Unless he still had it. 

Lestrade took the video back a few seconds, watched the man rub the shirt in Sherlock’s face again and watched him stroll away with a smug satisfied look on his drunken face. 

‘I will really enjoy taking down this arsehole,’ Lestrade thought, ‘I hope he resists when we come at him with the cuffs.’ 

Sherlock’s eyes followed his attacker as he saunters away but he didn’t move for a long moment. 

Lestrade began to think he couldn’t move, but eventually Sherlock grasped his jeans and clumsily inched them up his thighs. It was awkward and difficult to do from that position, but he was in no state to even sit up. It was painstaking to watch the slow progression but eventually he put himself right. The button and fly almost defeated his shaking hands. He didn’t bother with the belt.

All that effort could have gone into summoning help. Lestrade saw that he was a proud man. Didn’t want anyone to see him like that. Despite the pain it caused. Lestrade felt more like a voyeur watching this than he had at any moment during the video, during his whole life. 

On the screen Sherlock fumbled in his pocket and eventually produced a phone. He tried to work it, but his motor skills were too affected by the drugs, or the beating, or perhaps the phone was broken. Eventually he gave up, tossing the phone weakly away. He just lay there. Blood trickling down his forehead and from his nose down across his cheek to form a puddle on the ground. 

It was 25 minutes before one of the bar staff went to take the rubbish out and found him lying on the cold pavers. Another ten before the ambulance officers got to him. A further seven minutes of Sherlock refusing to let them touch him before Lestrade himself appeared on the screen. No wonder he had been shivering when I got there, Lestrade thought. He’d been lying on the freezing cold pavers for the better part of an hour. 

He clicked the video off. He knew what happened next. He had convinced Sherlock to let him help him to the ambulance, only to have him pass out halfway there. If he’d know what a beating he’d received he would have insisted on the gurney. Still, he knew victims often liked to take some power back by making their own way out of a crime scene. He deserved that much, at least.

He shut the laptop and pushed his chair back. He had gone through things like this before, watched murders and assaults and rapes. Usually he could just shake it off afterwards, knew that it was necessary to do that, if he wanted to keep doing this job. This one was different though. There was something about the victim. Perhaps it was that he had allowed Lestrade to help him when he had refused everyone else. Perhaps it was because Lestrade, despite his marriage, the age difference, the appalling situation and his fierce self-loathing at his thoughts, found him incredibly attractive. He didn’t want to admit this to himself. Maybe he just felt sorry for the poor lad. 

He’d had enough for one day. More than enough. It was nearly morning. He wanted to go home. He wanted to hold his wife. He wanted the sleep. He wanted to forget this whole horrific thing. 

The roads were quiet and so was his house. His wife fast asleep when he looked in on her. He collapsed on the couch instead of disturbing her. Pulling the blanket his nana had knitted for him over his shoulders. He tried to stop thinking of the poor skinny boy who had suffered so much that evening. He wondered if he was ever in the same situation would he have the courage, the gumption to fight that hard, to face the examinations and the questions. He told himself he would. He hoped it wasn’t a lie.


	5. Sherlock Holmes

While Mycroft was watching over him, Sherlock had slept, but not soundly. It seemed there was no end to the doctors and nurses who wanted to poke and prod and ask inane questions about who ruled the parliament and what day of the week it was. Each time he awoke he had found that Mycroft’s presence was... soothing? If that wasn’t a sign of his frayed nerves and altered perception, then nothing was. Not that Mycroft had actually done anything. He’d just sat there. Still and thankfully silent. Each time he roused, Sherlock could feel Mycroft’s hands warm around his own cold hand. He would ground himself in that until he could drift back to oblivion. So, when Mycroft had released his hand, he was immediately aware of it. He only half heard the conversation between Nancy and his brother, but he knew that she was asking him to leave. Only the thin shred of pride he had remaining prevented him from begging Nancy to let him say. He couldn’t face seeing Mycroft off though. He pretended to sleep, keeping his breathing deep and regular as he listened to Mycroft’s words with his heart clenched shut. Then he watched his brother leave the room, knowing he wouldn’t look back. His shoulders were hunched in a way he couldn’t remember ever seeing them. 

Nancy came back moments later with her apple scented perfume and a syringe full of bliss. It took the pain away. That was enough. He didn’t mind that it made his mouth dry and his skin slick with sweat. It helped him sleep deeply for a time too. Oblivion. Just as he had desired. Deep restful sleep without a single thought. 

He was aware of how good that sleep had felt for one tiny moment before he came fully awake. Just for that one sweet moment before his brain came online. Then it all hit him with full force, it was like an electric shock. He stiffened, every muscle and fibre clamping down against the onslaught of realisation. He felt every bruise and gash and strained muscle in that second, before he forced himself to relax, to let it all wash over him. Resigned to the turmoil of his mind. There was no fighting the reality of what had happened to him.

He knew he would not sleep again any time soon. The jolt of realisation had brought him fully awake and brought most of the pain back with it. A nauseating headache that splintered and cracked behind his eyes every time he moved his head. His left eye would not open and when he touched it gently, he could feel the spongy swelling that kept it sealed shut. A dull ache deep in his right shoulder. A deep throb in his lower back. The grinding of his ribs with every breath. The cramping in his abdomen, like his body was trying to reorganise its muscles to how they had been before he was attacked, violated. The shooting pain from his knee, a hurt that ran all the way to his ankle. And worst of all the stabbing pain that reminded him just how personal the assault was. He wondered again just how much damage had been done, it hurt more than anything he had ever experienced. 

The pain was awful, but the memories that assailed him were worse. The smell of a strange cigarette. The hand in his crotch. The shock of it, then the fear of what might come. The attack so fast and so furious that he was overcome in seconds and the pain that came with it. Choking on blood as he fought for air against the pressure on this throat. 

A tap at the door startled him. The cold sweat of fear prickled on his neck. His heart thrummed in his chest. An unfamiliar nurse came in. He immediately classed her as inferior, as Not-Nancy. He was angry at her for startling him and for being another new person, but at the same time he was aware that he was being unfair, that he was truthfully angry at his situation rather than her.

“What time is it?” He asked her, trying hard not to speak sharply. His voice didn’t sound so slurred anymore, but it did sound thin and weak. He sounded tired, even to his own ears. 

“Just after 7 am.” She told him in a cheery voice as she took his blood pressure, the cuff squeezing his arm uncomfortably. “It’s still dark out, cold too. Took me ten minutes to scrape the ice off my windscreen.” 

He wasn’t too surprised at that there had been a frost. He has been so cold earlier, still was, to be honest. He felt like the chill might never leave his bones.

She continued to chatter about the weather and how poorly people drive and how she had nearly been late to work, but he couldn’t concentrate on her.

The big hand tugging on his belt. Words rasping in his ear. “I’m going to fuck you hard Posh Spice. You’ll beg me for more when I’m done.” Trying to fight back feebly thought the haze of pain and drugs, only getting one good shot in. The blow to his assailant made his knuckles crunch with the force. Breaking free for just one moment, only to be slammed back against the fence.

He didn’t want to think about what had come next next, told himself not to, not to let his mind go there. When he looked around the room Not-Nancy was gone. He let his eyes wonder around the room, trying to distract himself. There wasn’t much to hold his interest. It was a standard hospital room, light coloured walls, cream privacy curtain, grey blinds on the window, a generic picture of the Thames. His eyes were drawn to the ceiling where there was a small chip in the paint. He stared at it. Wondered how it had gotten there. Had a patient thrown something? No, the angle was wrong. Had it happened when the room was being decorated? Unlikely, they would have fixed it if that was the case. Has a cleaner lifted the broom handle too high? Maybe. Had it happened recently or was it old? Old he thought but he wasn’t sure why. That annoyed him. Why did he think it was old? He needed evidence to be sure. 

This was better than thinking about his situation. He had forgotten it for just a few moments but as soon as he realised that he had stopped thinking about it, he was ripped back to reality. Every time he remembered was as shocking as the last. His guts dropped every time his brain took him back there. And his brain did take him back there, no matter how hard he fought against it.

Fingers; thick and strong running down the back of his pants, down the cleft of his arse. Jammed inside of him. Nails and dry skin catching and pulling at his rim. Being thrown to the ground. Cold air on his arse. His face ground against the dirty concrete pavers. Burning ribs at every breath. Clawing at the ground trying to pull himself away. A blunt nudge at his arsehole. Sheer panic. Pain!

The paint chip was safer. ‘Stay with the paint chip,’ he told himself. It must have been made by something blunt. There was a little dint beside it. Something sharp would have torn the plaster opened. His shirt had been torn open. ‘Damn it,’ he thought, ‘everything leads back there.’ He hated the memories and he hated that he couldn’t control them, that they came without warning. He needed to get them under control and fast. He took a deep breath, knowing that more was to come. His brain insisted on tormenting him. 

A bead of sweat running down his collar bone. The grunt his attacker made with every powerful thrust. Ejaculating. Surprised and embarrassed in equal measures. Being pulled upright to stand on his knees. The man’s chest pressed against his back. A hand on his belly wiping his shame around. The grunts speeding up, running together. Disgust and relief when he finished. Warmth dribbling down his thighs. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. Sherlock blinked and tried to compose himself, watched as Mycroft dropped a neatly folded pile of clothing on the foot of the hospital bed. He felt like he was on the brink of crumbling. He didn’t know how long Mycroft has been there, or the pair of doctors that were with him. Had they watched his face as his brain ran through the attack, had he managed to keep the mask of indifference on?

“Doctor Greyvaal, we are here to discuss your treatment options.” Said the older doctor as way of introduction. He was grey haired and serious in an unfriendly way. He did not bother to introduce his colleague. Sherlock immediately thought him rude. The other doctor, a younger, no, young man, watched on silently and ignored the slight. Perhaps he was used to it, more likely he was not in a position to challenge it. Student most likely. He wore a serious expression too, but he had a friendly countenance that was far more reassuring. Sherlock wished it was the younger doctor that was talking to him, instead it was Dr. Greyvaal that continued. “You are very lucky; you have escaped any serious injuries and your prognosis is good. There are several…” 

Sherlock caught the brief grimace on the other man’s face, even he knew that the statement was in poor taste, but Sherlock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He didn’t feel at all lucky. How could anyone think he was lucky? His face was stoved in, he ached all over and he had been raped, for Christ sake! Lucky? Should he have fought harder? If he really wasn’t so badly injured, then he probably had the capacity to fight harder. Doubt crept into his mind. He knew the doubt was pointless; he could not change what had happened, but it gnawed at him. Was it the drugs that kept him from fighting? He had felt so weak and tired. That sounded like a poor excuse for letting this happen. Could he have done more to escape? He had got just one good punch in, but it hadn’t helped him in the end. 

The man shoved him to the ground. His head cracking on the ground. The cold pavers hard against his bare chest. His shirt ripped all the way free. Watching the man using it to wipe his cock. Red staining the shirt. The shirt shoved into his face, rubbed against his aching nose. “Do you smell that? That’s me you can smell. You’ll smell me every time you shit for a month.” The words rung in his ears. Then he had walked calmly way leaving him alone in the cold. Waiting to die, or to be found. Deciding that either way he did not want to be found with his pants down around his knees. The fight to put his clothing right. Shivering. Remembering his phone. Feeling stupid for taking so long to remember. His hand too damaged and shaky to press the buttons.

“Sherlock, Sherlock.” Mycroft said sharply. “Did you hear that?” 

“Sure.” He lied. He had tuned out, but he could tell they had spent the whole meeting talking about him as if he wasn’t there. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended that they had mostly ignored him. “I need surgery. There is paperwork?” 

It was a guess, but a good one, he was good at guessing. 

The young doctor put a clipboard in front of him and pointed to lines that needed signing. His hand ached and the splits in his knuckles re-opened, bled, as he gripped the pen. He signed in a messy scrawl that barely looked like his own signature. The young doctor told him that him that he would be back to prepare him for surgery in a couple of hours. Then Sherlock was alone with his brother. 

“You didn’t listen to any thing they said, did you?” Mycroft snapped at him the moment they closed the door behind them.

“I did my best not to.” 

“You can’t hide from this.”

“Pretty sure I just did.” 

“But you agreed to everything they said, without even listening.” 

“They know best.”

“You’re having surgery.”

“I know, I signed the paperwork.” 

“Oh, how very good of you to pay attention.” Mycroft said dryly.

“How do you think that happened?” Sherlock asked, pointing to the chip on the ceiling with his left hand. He was determined to distract his brother from this line of questioning, or at the very least rile him up.

“What?” Mycroft asked indignantly.

“That chip. Mop handle, I think.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Mycroft muttered under his breath before continuing on. “Sherlock take this seriously. You’ve been hurt very badly.”

“Apparently not.” He was still bitter about the doctor’s comment. “If I’m so jolly ‘lucky’ I can’t see why I shouldn’t go home now.”

“I think I should call our parents.”

“Don’t you dare. Not this time.” Sherlock hissed, sitting bolt upright, regretted it instantly. Sinking back to the mattress far more slowly. 

“Oh, does it hurt? Perhaps you’d be best to stay here a bit longer then.” Mycroft smirked at the wince of pain on Sherlock’s bruises face. Sherlock glared at him, knowing that Mycroft felt like he had won that round. He said as much with his raised eyebrows. Sherlock rolled away from his brother, giving him his back to stare at. Sherlock had no intention of continuing the conversation with him. 

He could hear Mycroft settle into the chair by the window, could hear the rustle of a newspaper. Damn it, not leaving then, he thought. 

The hours passed slowly. Sherlock had nothing to pass his time but his silent brother, the rampant memories and the pain to keep him company as he waited. He dozed fitfully but woke each time without feeling rested. It was almost a relief when they came to take him up to surgery.

\-------

“Open your eyes. That’s the way. Time to wake up.”

Sherlock blinked his good eye open, the more damaged one still refusing to open through the puffy swelling. It seemed like it was only moments ago that they had him counting backwards from ten as the anaesthetic took hold. He wished that the surgery had lasted longer. The morning had dawned too early for him, any peace made impossible by invading memories, intrusive doctors and his bloody brother. It was all too much after last night and too little sleep. 

Despite his distraction during the conversation with the doctors, Sherlock had caught bits of it and the rest had been explained by the young doctor when he had returned to give him the pre-anaesthetic medication. They had decided that surgery was the best course of action to clean up his knee. A piece of glass dug deep into the wound had shown up on the x-ray along with grit that had ground into the jagged opening in the skin. The glass needed to be removed and the patella ligament cleaned thoroughly to avoid infection. There was also the more serious matter of the rectal perforations. They had made the decision that they required closure but could do so with clips and therefore, much to Sherlock’s relief, major surgery and a colostomy bag could be avoided. He would, however, need to continue the strong antibiotics they had him on and to take it easy for a few weeks. While he was under the anaesthetic, they would have a plastic surgeon straighten his broken nose. They told him it wasn’t strictly necessary to do it under a general anaesthetic, but it would save him a bit of discomfort. He guessed he should appreciate that, but it was hard to summon the energy necessary for appreciation. 

“That’s it. Come on, wake up, open your eyes.” Sherlock blinked his eye open to a too bright room and a friendly face. It was the young doctor that had been in his room earlier. He had been the more decent of the two. 

“The surgery went well. No complications. Your knee is all cleaned up nice, and the plastic surgeon has put your nose back right.” Said the young doctor who wore scrubs and a friendly smile. 

“Nicely.” Sherlock corrected in a voice still groggy from the anaesthetic. 

“Yeah,” the young doctor said with a grimace that was also a smile. “Nicely. Your knee has cleaned up nicely, the gash was pretty deep and full of grit and glass, but it should be ok now. We’ve fixed up all the plumbing. You needed a few more external stitches than we expected. The internal tearing has been…” 

“You’re a student.” Sherlock said, cutting him off. He didn’t want to talk about it, to hear about it. He was sick of every moment being a reminder of the attack.

“Yes. I am. Does that matter, would you prefer to talk to my supervisor?” He had a baby face, he looked too young to be a doctor, even a trainee. Then again, Sherlock himself had had similar prejudices thrown at him for his young appearance. Young did not equal stupid. He should work on his Queen’s English though. He couldn’t see his hair under the surgical cap he wore. It had been a light colour, light brown or blond or tinged with red, he couldn’t remember. Not important, he thought as he examined his face. His chin had a slight cleft to it and his face had a soft almost pudgy look to it that spoke of one carrying a few too many kilos, probably from grabbing snacks between patients and classes rather than eating properly. His smile was bright, and his eyes had a cheeky innocent glint to them that spoke of a love for mischief. Sherlock thought he probably had no trouble attracting pretty young women. 

“You’ve almost finished though.” He didn’t care that he wasn’t fully qualified, he did not want to deal with Dr. Grayvaal again.

“Closer to finished than started.” The young man said. 

Sherlock just nodded once, then wished he hadn’t moved his head. He shut his eye against the pain and the glare of the recovery room. The doctor told him that the pain in his head should pass in a few days as the concussion improved. Sleep would help, he explained and then prattled on about the surgery. Sherlock ignored him and hoped the pain would go way soon.


	6. Greg Lestrade

When Lestrade entered the hospital room on the afternoon after the attack he was feeling the strain of having been up for half the night, but he suspected that he was feeling a good bit better than the young man he was here to visit. He was surprised to see Sherlock sitting up, looking more composed and less bleary than he had late the night before. The mottled bruises on his face ran together with the ones on his neck before disappearing below a hospital gown. His left eye was swollen shut but the gravel rash on his cheek had been picked clean of debris. Sherlock’s focus was on opening a small cup of bright green jelly. It looked as though the plastic seal was putting up a good fight against his shredded fingertips. One fingertip was bandaged heavily, and the nails of the others were either broken or split. Sherlock put down the jelly cup the moment he registered Lestrade’s entry. A pale eye of unusual intensity focused on Lestrade with a fierce concentration that was disconcerting. Lestrade thought he noticed a flicker of recognition crossing Sherlock’s features as he placed his hands in his lap, palms together. He looked determined. 

“Detective,” Sherlock said in a voice that did not sound like it belonged to the person he’d met the night before.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade replied, “you’re looking...”

“Get out your notebook.” Sherlock cut him off. “You’re going to want to write this down.”

Lestrade did as he was bid. Amused by the transformation in the victim. Clearly, he had remembered something from the night before and he clearly thought it was important. “Righto.”

“The man you are looking for is tall; about six foot three or thereabouts. Stocky build but not fat. Brown hair, short and neatly styled. Mid to late thirties. Pale complexion and…” 

“We know what he looks like, Sherlock. We have the video footage.” Lestrade butted in gently. Hoping the professional ‘we’ would soften the news a little.

“Of the attack?” Sherlock asked, he did not sound surprised. 

“Yes.” Lestrade replied, feeling guilty about having watched it, even though it was his job. He tried not to let it show.

“And you have watched this video.” It wasn’t really a question. 

“Yes, I have.” Lestrade squirmed under the scrutiny of the pale eye that stared at him for a long moment.

“Good, then you know what happened. I don’t need to go through it with you and I won’t need to work with your sketch artist. That would be tedious. Like I was saying, the tine if his skin and his professional attire indicates he has an office job. He studied media but I doubt he has a high-level job. He would have told me if he did, so I suspect he works for one of the smaller local newspapers. Unlikely to be working in television or radio but don’t rule it out completely. He works and or lives nearby to the Hox and Found, probably within walking distance or near the train line. He will have a driving record and perhaps even a suspended licence. His shoes indicate he does a lot of walking.”

Lestrade stared for a moment but then began jotting down notes as the information came faster and faster.

“This is not his first sexual assault. Look for someone with priors. Might be something less significant, stealing underwear or revealing himself. There has been a recent stressor in his life, break up, loss of a loved one, lost job, financial difficulties, something that has prompted this attack. It was about power and control, that’s what he gets off on and something in his life is making him feel powerless. The attack is his way of rebalancing that check book. He will do it again. Although he may not bother with the drugs next time. He enjoyed…” Sherlock paused, seemed to choke on the word, then carried on at the same pace as before “that I fought back, reacted, he might try to recreate that. Might escalate the violence in the future. He will kill someone eventually and after that there will be no going back for him, he will like it. If you can’t find him through the description keep an eye out at local bars. Perhaps pass his photos around with publicans in the area. He likes to drink. Whiskey. Not that that is important. You should have enough there to find him, I should think.”

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped speaking, he seemed to sink into the bed, diminished by the effort. When Lestrade glanced up from the notepad he caught a glimpse of the fearful young man from the night before, it was gone behind a mask of indifference a moment later. 

“How on earth do you know all that?” Lestrade asked in wonder.

Sherlock shrugged and then seemed to regret the movement. “Don’t know. I’m good at knowing things about people. Will it help?”

“Yeah, it’s good, it should help. You remembered all that since last night?”

“It is much easier to remember when the room isn’t spinning.” Sherlock said with a small smile.


	7. Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is finally free from hospital but there is a lot of healing left to do.

“Port?” Mycroft asked Sherlock on the evening that he had left the hospital. Sherlock was surprised by the question; he had expected Mycroft to coddle him when he had agreed to stay with him until he was better recovered. They hadn’t given him much choice though, either he needed to stay with someone, or they were going to make him stay in the hospital a few more days. He had thought that even Mycroft’s tedious mothering would be better than another moment in hospital, so he had reluctantly agreed. Mycroft had at least given him the dignity of being absent for the hospital pick up. He had thoughtfully sent a car and driver. Allowing Sherlock to be alone when he received his final care instructions and for the indignity of being taken to the car in a wheelchair. He was grateful for some time of relative peace and solitude behind the dark tinted windows of the posh car. Somehow Mycroft seemed to command a fleet of these vehicles. The sky had been a dull grey and heavy drizzle had fallen steadily, drenching everything in sight. It rather matches my mood, Sherlock had thought as they drove towards Mycroft’s residence, windscreen wipers lashing at the heavy drizzle. Sherlock sat in the plush back seat, but he could not appreciate the comfort, he sat twisted, his weight on one hip, his breath fogging up the glass where he lent against the window. He drew a smiley face in the mist. Knowing that it would irritate Mycroft next time the windows fogged.

Mycroft had come out to the car with an umbrella when they had pulled up in the courtyard. He had offered to carry Sherlock’s bag, but he had declined, by way of making a rude noise at him. It wasn’t heavy, it only contained his phone charger, a few pairs of socks and underwear and basic toiletries. He hadn’t needed much more than those few things in the hospital. He wore the only set of clothing Mycroft had brought for him; a pair of tracksuit pants that were too large, an oversized tee shirt and a woollen blazer. They were all Mycroft’s; Sherlock could tell from the size and he could faintly smell Mycroft cologne, but he had never seen Mycroft wear anything nearly so casual. He had no idea how or why he owned such clothing. When Sherlock had asked why he hadn’t brought him some of his own clothing, Mycroft had said he refused to even visit that hovel he called a home. 

Mycroft walked slowly beside him, holding the umbrella up to protect them both from the misty rain, as he had shuffled slowly towards the house. Every mincing step pulled at the stitches that were in a very personal place, a reminder of how much tearing had occurred during the attack. Getting inside was a slow process but once there Sherlock knew which room would be his, he had stayed in the guest room before. He left Mycroft to shake out the umbrella as he went to dump his bag on the end of the bed. He looked around at the pointlessly aristocratic décor, rubbed his face in both hands, wished he hadn’t, it still hurt something fierce. At a loss as to what to do with himself, he went back out to the main living area. Mycroft had made him a cup of tea, in a fine china cup. He didn’t own any of the uncouth mugs that Sherlock favoured. Mycroft worked from home that day. They had spoken little, neither of them knowing what to say. Mycroft spending the day staring at his computer while Sherlock rattled around the house looking pale and morose. He was bored by midday and had ventured in to pester Mycroft. It was enough to just scan over the books on the large oak shelves behind the computer desk to get a rise out of him. 

“Pick one and read it.” He said.

“What do you recommend? They all look so dull.” Sherlock said. 

Mycroft huffed his books were not ‘dull’ they were a fine literary collection. However, if Sherlock wanted to be obtuse, he could play along. 

“I have a few here that might suit you. He leaned back on his chair and opened a small draw below the main shelves; it contained a few childish classics that were not presentable enough for the shelves. He chose one and flung it onto the edge of the desk, near to where Sherlock stood, back turned perusing the shelves. The sound of the book landing made him flinch. He turned to see one of his childhood favourites staring up at him from the edge of the desk. Captain Blood. 

As a child Sherlock had instantly been enchanted by the blue-eyed doctor and military man who literary fate had taken from respected citizen to prisoner and slave to the grandest pirate adventures, with his loyal chronicler and navigator Jeremy Pitt. He hadn’t even thought of that book in years. His father had been the first to read it to him. One of Sherlock’s earliest childhood memories was of his father sitting on the edge of his bed reading the book aloud. He brought the characters to life by giving them different syntax and tone and by doing all the accents perfectly; Peter Blood’s soft Irish lilt, the Spanish of villain Don Miguel de Espinosa y Valdez, the French of the governor of Tortuga, he even gave Colonel Bishop’s voice a colourful flavour that spoke of his long term inhabitance of Barbados, and of course his natural English accent for the loyal Jeremy Pitt. 

As Sherlock grew older, he would read the book himself, but every so often Mycroft would read parts of it to him. He was as good at the accents as father and he would never edit out the more violent parts like father did. 

Sherlocks had wanted to be a pirate just like the men in the book. They weren’t like regular pirates, Peter Blood’s strong moral bearing kept them all honest, while his wits helped them to outsmart even the biggest villains. That had appealed to Sherlock’s natural inclination towards both mischief and righteousness. 

He had not known that Mycroft had kept it. When Sherlock had left home, he had left all of his belongings behind. This included. He had never bothered to check what had become of his things. Now that he had the book back in his hands, he was excited to relive the adventures. 

Sherlock had spent the rest of the day curled up on the couch reading, at least until he had fallen asleep. There Sherlock slept with the book on his chest until Mycroft brought him his medication and some dinner. The swelling had receded enough that he could open both eyes, but his cheek and nose were still painful, and it hurt to chew. Dinner had been a silent affair. They had both balanced their plates on their laps as Mycroft watched the Russian evening news. Sherlock spent as much time pushing his food around as he did eating it. He’d rather be reading his book. Eventually Mycroft had got up with a huff and gone to the kitchen. He came back moments later and thrust a bowl of ice cream and a teaspoon at Sherlock. 

“Please, would you eat this? Eat something at least.” Mycroft plead.

Sherlock looked at the bowl dubiously, sure that eating it would be just as uncomfortable as the pureed vegetables that Mycroft had provided for dinner. To his relief the ice cream was just what he needed, it was soft and cool. He had been quite hungry, not having eaten much for days; the prospect of chewing anything was just too much. He was so thankful for Mycroft’s gesture that a quip about Mycroft’s weight went unsaid. 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft brought him back to the moment with a gentle question. “Would you like some?”

“What?” His attention had been wayward since the attack. 

“Port, Sherlock, would you like a glass of port?” Mycroft asked exasperation creeping into his voice.

It probably wasn’t the best idea to mix alcohol with the extra strong antibiotics, but he liked Mycroft’s port. It cost far more that Sherlock would have ever bothered to pay. 

“Please.” Sherlock said as Mycroft poured some into a small crystal glass. 

“Do you remember the time we stole father’s port from the liquor cabinet?” Mycroft asked him as he handed the glass over. The book rested in Sherlock’s lap momentarily forgotten.

Sherlock smiled at the memory. “Yes, I was only about, what, fourteen? And I caught you making off with the bottle.”

“The only way I could get you to shut up about it was to give you some.” Mycroft said taking a sip, savouring the flavours. 

“We hid behind the couch sipping it straight from the bottle.” Sherlock chuckled at the thought. “We were convinced that Mummy would be furious if she found us, but when she did, she just asked if we were going to hog it all to ourselves or share it with her too.”

“She sat on the floor with us. I never did make it to the party I was going to take it to.”

“I had the worst headache the next day.” Sherlock confessed.

“Me too.” Mycroft said solemnly as he drained the last sip of the 1855 Taylor's Scion from his glass and stood up. “I have to go into work tomorrow. Will you be ok here on your own?”

“I think I can probably manage.” 

“Very well. Good night brother mine. Don’t sit up reading too late, you’ll go cross eyed.”

Eventually, as he read, he grew tired. His eyes hurt from focusing on the words that kept trying to swim away. His head had begun pounding again; it had the feeling of an oncoming migraine. The concussion he had received was still having numerous effects. The headaches being the worst of them. He knew that he had overdone it that day. A depressing thought, since all he had done was sit on the couch. Sleep was the only thing that would help, the doctor had told him. He had thought that was rubbish but right now he was inclined to believe it. He felt so very tired. He could not even be bothered with the short walk to the bedroom. He didn’t like the room much anyway. It was stuffy and claustrophobic with its dark hues, tall paintings and four poster bed. He dropped the book to the floor; it made a muffled thud on the dense carpet. He pulled the blanket from the back of the couch, the one he had been ignoring the whole day. He was sure Mycroft had put it there just for him. Mycroft went out of his way to help him like that. In little subtle ways that neither of them wanted to, nor had to acknowledge. 

He fell asleep easily but was haunted by disquieting dreams. Nothing tangible; just wisps of anxiety that he forgot by the time he stirred and fell asleep again. The last dream had him balancing along a narrow precipice in the dark of night. Rain coming down hard, water running down his cheeks. Only the light from his phone to guide the way along the craggy edge of sharp rocks. He was carrying two large heavy bags. One, a briefcase that looked identical to the one Mycroft owned and the other a brown leather satchel bag with a silver monogram of a crown above a star, in the centre of the star was a circle and the letter E and R. He didn’t know what was in the bags, but he knew it was important that he didn’t let them fall. He could hear a river or perhaps it was a waterfall that roared somewhere in the distance. Maybe that was where he was going. He did not understand the purpose of this treacherous journey. It was very cold, and he was soaked through. Each step took him to a narrower and narrower section of the cliff. It was hard to keep his balance on the narrow edge and it was too dark to see how far down it was, but he knew he was very up high. He felt dizzy. As he crept along his foot slipped towards the edge on loose gravel and his heart jumped in his chest. He woke with is skin prickling and a cold sweat on his back. His face wet, as it had been in the dream. He had barely caught his breath when he swung his feet to the floor, next to the blanket that had fallen from him. He needed to feel the ground under his feet.

“Screw you, and your bloody metaphors.” He muttered to the dream as he headed towards the bedroom, dizzy in the black darkness, vertigo reminding him of how close he had been to falling in the dream, yet he refused to turn on a light. Not wanting to wake his brother. Ashamed that he had been brought undone by a stupid dream. A dream that he knew was not in the least bit real. Problem was, while the dream was a sham created by his mind, the emotions it brought were real. 

He got to the room with small hesitant steps and his hand against the wall to reassure him that the world was not tilting and spinning, just his head. He closed the door behind him and stripped off his damp tee shirt. He didn’t bother to find a clean one, just climbed into the large bed. He pulled one of the plush pillows to his chest and hugged it hard, in an attempt to dull the pain of his smashed ribs and to try to quiet his thudding heart. He allowed himself one ragged sob, muffled by the pillows, then pulled himself together enough to silently cry himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I really did read Captain Blood as research for this chapter. To be honest I just picked an old pirate book at random but I cannot imagine that it wouldn't have appealed to young Sherlock. In fact, I wonder if it could have helped to shape him into who he is. If you like a classic adventure tale, like to original ACD Sherlock tales, you might get a kick out of it yourself. Go read it, it is a grand adventure. 
> 
> I you'f like to try Mycroft's port, you can buy a bottle, it will only set you back £2500 or so.


	8. Mycroft Holmes

Even days later, Mycroft still felt guilty about what happened the night of Sherlock’s arrival home from the hospital. Mycroft had chosen to turn in relatively early. Knowing that Sherlock would appreciate some privacy, he always seemed to feel like he was a guest when he stayed at Mycroft’s residence and consequently never really relaxed. It worked to Mycroft’s advantage to get an early night; he had plenty to catch up on since his work schedule had been quite disrupted by the circumstances of that week. Sleep had not come easily though, he just lay staring up into the darkness, his mind refusing to quiet. He did not know how to help his brother through any of this. Their dynamic was difficult at best and Sherlock would not talk to him about any of it. Not that he had asked directly. The blow up he suspected that would cause could only be counterproductive. Mycroft guessed he just had to wait him out, but that could be like out waiting an ice age. He turned it over and over in his mind as he lay in the dark, but still he couldn’t see another way. 

Then he heard something. Not a shout, but more of a distressed gasp. It came from the direction of the lounge room. He had not heard Sherlock go to the bedroom, so he suspected that he had fallen asleep on the couch. It was a habit of his. Even in his Montague Street apartment, he favoured the couch over the bed. Mycroft got up, intending to look in on him but he had only made it to the door of his own bedroom when he heard Sherlock’s unsteady footsteps in the hallway. Walking was clearly still painful for Sherlock, the damage to his knee and other more delicate areas still having a troubling effect, but the unsteady steps seemed to be different to earlier. He sounded hurried. Then, as Mycroft stood in the doorway to his own bedroom, pondering this, Sherlock closed his bedroom door a little too loudly for someone who had taken pains to not turn on a single light. 

Mycroft went to his door then, moving on autopilot, his hand was on the doorknob before he stopped himself. In his mind he turned over the fact that Sherlock had not turned on any lights. He didn’t want to wake me, Mycroft thought, not because he was polite. No, never that. He didn’t want me here. He shut the door. Shut me out. Mycroft knew that with absolute clarity. Then he heard a single choked sob from behind the closed door. He doesn’t want me here because his barriers are down. Mycroft stood frozen in the hall wondering what had prompted this. He stood stupidly outside the bedroom door. Oscillating. If he entered, he knew it would be against Sherlock’s want, but how could he ignore his brother’s distress? He doesn’t want me there, not now, or is it just that am I too afraid to enter, too afraid to face this? Is that what stopping me, Mycroft wondered. In the end indecision kept him there. Self-doubt was not a feature of his personality but in that moment, it was all he had. Not knowing whether to enter or flee. Unable to decide, he waited, hoping for a signal from his brother. He waited, listened to him quietly grieve. Hopeful that he would call out or send some sign that he desired Mycroft’s presence. Eventually, he could hear that his little brother’s breathing had evened out, he slept as Mycroft kept vigil outside his door. 

It seemed like hours later that Mycroft returned to his bed, but he could not sleep, and morning came both too quickly and too slowly. He readied himself for work, tidied up and made some strong coffee. Only then did he look in on his brother; finally brave enough to crack open the door, unsure whether he would find him sleeping or awake. Thankfully he slept. He did not, however, look completely comfortable. His broken body wrapped awkwardly around one of the extra pillows. Even with his face turned away Mycroft could tell his brow was knitted in pain, or distress, or both. Where the blankets had slipped down, he could see the bruising on his shoulder and back. Deep purples ringed in fading hues of yellow and green. He had grown used to seeing the damage to Sherlock’s face, which was also badly bruised, but he had forgotten how much more damage was hidden by his clothing. Seeing him like this gave him a jolt. He resolved, again, that when the man who did this was caught, he would be going away for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is a tiny chapter so I'm giving it to you as a bonus extra. See you later in the week with a proper chapter.


	9. Greg Lestrade

It was eight full days after he had scooped Sherlock up from where he had lain amongst the cigarette butts and broken glass at the back of the Hox and Found pub, that Lestrade caught up with his attacker. 

Sherlock had not known or perhaps he had not been able to recall the man’s name, but he had given them other valuable information when Lestrade had returned to the hospital the day after the attack. All Lestrade had had to do was run the criminal records for the local area, he focused on sexual assaults first, including lesser crimes such as stealing underwear from washing lines and crimes relating to stalking. Sherlock had been adamant that this was not his first sexual assault. The list had been longer than he would have liked, both because it proved that humanity was in a troubling condition and because it made finding the criminal more difficult. Sherlock had been smart with the information he had provided thought and when Lestrade narrowed the search to those with employment at local newspapers the search narrowed significantly. There were only eight names on that list. He clicked through the files from one to the next looking for a man in their thirties that stood at six three and had dark hair. None fit the bill. He swore at the computer.

At every spare moment he tweaked the search. Expanding the area – nothing. Expanding the filtered crimes – too many more, hundreds of suspects to search through. Expanding the job descriptions had finally done it. Sherlock might have been confident that the man worked at a newspaper now but when he had been picked up for exposing himself to a bus full of tourists, he had been working a local radio. 

It had been late at night and Lestrade had been alone in the office when he had finally cracked it. He punched in the right search parameters and had come up with twelve possible suspects. Clicking though them one by one he had started to think, yet again, that he wasn’t going to find his suspect this way. It was the photo of the ninth man on his list that made him stop dead. That was him. He was sure of it. He had watched the video too many times to have any doubt that that was the attacker. Jason Costello. That was him. Lestrade leapt to his feet with a cheer. Sherlock had been spot on; he had a far from perfect driving record that included a hit and run and a violent road rage incident. 

Lestrade’s excitement was short lived. When he pounded on the door of the address listed, with two uniformed officers by his side, the lady that answered had never heard of Jason Costello. He had no other address and he knew the man had left his employment with the radio station. He had to have left; Sherlock was certain he worked for a newspaper. He’d been right about everything else; surely, he was right about that too. Still, he decided it was worth calling his previous employers to see if they knew his current address or his new workplace, but there would be no one there to answer his calls there at this hour. Finding the scumbag would have to wait another day. 

Lestrade slept on the couch again that night, having arrived home after 2 am. He did not sleep well either, he was annoyed at the delays of picking up this suspect and eager for the next day to get started so he could bring him in. He needed this guy off the street. Sherlock had said he would offend again and Lestrade believed him

It only took three phone calls to find out where Jason Costello worked now. He worked in the classifieds at one of the smaller local newspapers in the area, his workplace only four blocks from where he had attacked Sherlock. 

Lestrade thoroughly enjoyed waltzing into his basement office and reading him his rights. As he had hoped Jason tried to run, it was easy for Lestrade to block the door though, and the big man was not fast. He tried to barrel right through Lestrade, but he was used to tackling small drugged men, not fit sober detectives with plenty of training. It was easy for Lestrade to put the man on the floor and satisfying too, especially when the air huffed out of him. 

“We’ll add resisting arrest and attempted assault of a police officer to the list of charges, shall we?” Lestrade had said as he leaned in close to the man with his arm bent up behind his back in much the same way that he had done to Sherlock. Holding it for just a moment longer than was strictly professional. 

Lestrade took note of a line of scratches on his forearms as he put the man in cuffs. He made a mental note to point those out to forensics. He was sure that Sherlock had put them there, along with the fading bruise on the man’s left cheek. 

Lestrade then had the pleasure of walking him out past all his colleagues with the cuffs around his wrists and his head bowed. He had got less enjoyment out of questioning the man, he lawyered up instantly and refused to cooperate, but it was interesting to note that when asked for his home address he stated that he was living with his mum because he had large debts. That must be the stressor Sherlock had alluded to. The kid was smart. 

It hadn’t been hard to get a warrant for the collection of DNA and for a search of the suspect’s home. While forensics collected DNA from their suspect, Lestrade accompanied the team to the suspect’s home. 

Mrs. Costello, an overweight woman with receding hair, had put up a pretty good fight about letting them search her home until Lestrade had explained that they had a warrant and she would be arrested if she did not allow them inside. She had then sat outside on the low wall that surrounded the little garden with her arms crossed. Muttering that they wouldn’t find anything in her house.

The team methodically searched the whole house, Lestrade was not required, nor able to assist with the search but he had to be there. He didn’t want to miss a thing. It was the missing shirt that was bothering him. He was sure that Jason had taken it from the scene. Sure that it was somewhere within this house. 

After two hours, Lestrade began to doubt his confidence in finding anything incriminating. He was bored and edgy and had not had near enough sleep this last week. He needed a smoke. He stepped out into the little courtyard at the back of the house. Unwilling to face the fury of Mrs. Costello. He sat down on the steps that led down from the back of the house and wondered again why this case had gotten to him more than any other. He took a long draw on his cigarette. He was too invested, he knew that, he needed to step away from it, but he wasn’t sure he could. 

His back hurt from too many nights on the couch, he stood up, stretched. He walked the few paces around the little birdbath in the centre of the tiny courtyard. Then he saw it. The small garden shed, barely a metre deep, designed for not much more than keeping a spade and a rake inside. It had a big padlock. Too big, too expensive for the usual task of locking up garden tools. 

Lestrade stubbed out his cigarette and pocketed the butt, before racing up the back steps. “Get out here; I think I’ve found something.” 

Ten minutes later, a disgruntled Mrs. Costello had informed them that the only key belonged to her son. A phone call had confirmed that the warrant included the yard and shed, and a bolt cutter was produced from the back of the forensics van. 

Lestrade stood back as they opened the door to the shed. His stillness in opposition to his anticipation. He knew they’d get him on the DNA, but he felt there was something more here. Something Jason Costello had felt the need to lock up. 

Garden tools and bags of potting mix were brought out of the shed and piled beside the birdbath along with empty plant post and an old window frame. 

“Here we go.” A voice exclaimed from inside the little shed. One of the techs stepped out carrying a small wooden chest. The bolt cutters came in handy again to remove the lock. 

Please let it be the shirt, please let it be the shirt, thought Lestrade as he fingered the evidence bag in his pocket. It contained the buttons from Sherlock’s shirt that were found under the picnic table at the Hox and Found. If any buttons remained on the shirt, and it was likely that the collar button at least would be there, then they would know very quickly whether they had a preliminary match. DNA would back it up. 

A white shirt was taken from the chest. It was ripped and stained with dried blood gone ruddy brown. One of the techs held it out with gloved hands to Lestrade to compare the collar button to the ones in the evidence bag. The shirt had a lingering smell of stale sweat. Stinks of fear, Lestrade thought as he held the little evidence bag up to the shirt collar. The pearlescent buttons were identical to the naked eye. This was Sherlock’s shirt; he was sure of it. They had the guy; the charges would surely stick. Evidence was mounting up against him. Lestrade blew out a breath of air he hadn’t known he was holding. This was a good day, as good as policing got. 

He took out his phone intent on sending a text message to Sherlock. He wanted to tell him the good news in person, so he asked if he could pop in after work. Lestrade intended on leaving early enough to make it home for dinner that night. 

Before he got a reply, the techs had taken two more shirts out of the little chest both stained with blood and semen. One dark blue, the other a band t-shirt. Lestrade had not been expecting that. It felt like a kick to the guts. He stood back as they bagged the evidence.


	10. Sherlock Holmes

It was late morning, nearly lunch time when he awoke. The light piercing though the windows with an unnatural brightness. Was London broken, Sherlock wondered for a moment before he remembered the light sensitivity he had been experiencing. He had not thought to close the drapes when he had come to bed late the night before. The sun had risen enough to be higher than the wall that surrounded the estate and low enough to be below the miserable clouds. It peeked through the bare branches of the willow tree like a voyeur. Sherlock pulled the pillow over his face to keep out the light before he remembered the fractures to his nose and cheek bone. It was quickly apparent that he would not return to sleep. He needed to pee anyway. 

He went to the loo, pleased to see that there was less evidence of blood, a sign that the bruising to his kidneys was healing. Coming to the sink to wash his hands he got a shock when he caught a sight of his bare chest in the large gilded mirror. When he had showered at the hospital there had been only a small mirror above the sink, enough to see his face and neck, but he had not seen the extent of the bruising across his chest and back. Most of his pale skin was marred by deep bruising, aubergine fading to mahogany across his lower back and side. He knew it was the iron from the blood that forms haemosiderin with the ferritin protein, creating darker colours within a bruise. Once the red blood cells degraded the haemoglobin into biliverdin the hints of olive formed around the edges of a bruise just like the bruises on his right pectoral, under which there was at least one cracked rib. Then biliverdin was rapidly metabolised to form bilirubin, which was yellow in colour like the bruises on his wrist and neck, signifying the bruise was almost healed. Fascinated, he admired the bruises, turning and twisting as best he could to see how they were healing. He followed the marks that marred his body down below the waistline of the tracksuit pants he wore; he pulled the waist band down until he could see the handprint on this thigh. It too was yellow and losing its defined shape. The edge of the bruising that was mostly hidden by his underpants was enough to make him lose interest in mentally charting the recovery time of bruises. 

He left the bathroom, banging the door behind him. Confident that Mycroft had left for work by this hour he padded out to the kitchen on bare feet, still not bothering to grab a shirt. Passing the couch where he had spent most of the previous day, he noted with amusement that Mycroft had folded the blanket and placed the book on the coffee table. Sherlock smirked when he thought of the sour look Mycroft would have sported when he saw his blanket on the floor. In the kitchen he found his phone, his medication laid out and a note reminding him to drink enough water and eat something with his antibiotics. It seemed that Mycroft did intend to coddle him after all. 

Grasping his phone to see how much charge it had, he found it completely flat. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to talk to anyone anyway. He convinced himself to eat some breakfast. The thought made him cringe, knowing every bite would aggravate the injuries to his face, until he remembered the ice cream from the night before. Raiding the freezer, he found the tube and took it with him to the couch to eat what remained while he read his old treasured book and wrap himself up in the blanket. He picked up where he had left off the night before; Blood and his buccaneers trapped at Lake Maracaybo by the Spanish Admiral Don Miguel. Sherlock looked forward to reading the account of their ingenious escape. 

It was lunch time before he moved again. Deciding to text Mycroft to pick up more soft food. Preferably desserts. It would take a moment for his phone to charge enough to turn on. He went and showered while he waited for it to charge. When he returned, he noticed that there was a text message there from a number he did not recognise. It read – Hi Sherlock, it’s Detective Lestrade here. I have some news for you. Would it be possible to talk about it in person? I could drop in after work. Cheers. 

He faltered twice and had to wipe his hands dry before he was able to type a reply with the address. For the rest of the day he could not stop himself from wondering what Lestrade wanted to tell him. Had his attacker gotten away? Fled the country? Did he have some bullshit, but airtight alibi? Had his HIV results come in? No, that was stupid, there is no way Lestrade could have access to his medical files. Had they caught him? He didn’t even dare to hope that was true. There was not enough data. He would need to wait for an answer. He hated waiting.

He tried to concentrate on reading, but his mind kept wandering to what Lestrade could possibly have to say that required a personal visit. Minutes stretched on and concerned curiosity turned into agitation as he tied to figure it out without the threads of evidence he needed to do so. Why not just text or call even, why come all the way over here? He flung the book at the fireplace in frustration. Unlit as it was, his missing the fireplace and knocking over the fire tools with a crash, was unsatisfying. He lay on the couch with his back to the world. 

Eventually, even sulking grew tiresome and he wen to fetch the book and right the stand of tools. Mycroft would know of course; he knew when anything had been moved so much as a millimetre. Sherlock hated staying here. There was no privacy. His every move was tracked by Mycroft. He couldn’t even pace without him knowing. It felt like living in a museum. ‘Look but don’t touch, Sherlock’ he remembered his brother instructing him on outings. 

Time crawled by, marked by the grand father clock in the library. Sherlock was sure it had stopped working more than once, unlikely though it was after the 120 years that it had been striking for, before the sharp knock at the door announced Lestrade. 

Sherlock wanted to race to the door, but his injuries prevented any haste. Despite the time it took him to get there he did not feel particularly composed. He pulled open the door. He took a moment to eye the detective, to centre himself. Lestrade took in the sight before him too. Sherlock was aware that Lestrade was curious, curious of how he was healing, but Sherlock suddenly felt self-conscious of his attire as he was looked up and down. He wished he had a suit or at least a shirt. Anything but this damned polo shirt and baggy track suit bottoms. 

“Hi Sherlock. This your place?” Lestrade asked. “It’s erm, it’s bloody huge.” 

“You smoke.” Sherlock said in a matter of fact tone, ignoring Lestrade’s question as he held out his hand. “Do you mind?” 

Lestrade did a brief double take. Then retrieved his cigarettes from his pocket. 

“Yeah, sure. Here you go?”

Once Sherlock had one in his hand, he brushed passed Lestrade to stand in the open air. They both smoked in silence. Sherlock drew on his cigarette. Unsure for a split second as to whether it would bring back memories of the night of the attack. He had not had a smoke since then. The smoke burned in his lungs but not in his mind. Good, at lease he didn’t ruin everything. 

Gradually he became aware that Lestrade was not finding the silent particularly comfortable. He shifted from one foot to the other, rubbed the back of his neck, when to say something, but stopped himself. Sherlock jumped in to put his out of his misery.

“The flowers are a good start, but you’ll need to do more if you want to get off the couch tonight.” Sherlock said.

“What do you…? How did…? Never mind.” Lestrade started, then stopped giving Sherlock a slight desperate look. 

“I can smell the pollen on you, just like I could the cigarette smoke. Not roses, and that wedding ring would have to be at least 5 years old, and you’re the faithful sort, so you’re not wooing. A combination of different flowers, something cheaper, probably from a service station or supermarket. Gerberas, mainly I suspect. You’re here after work so you’re probably not going to a party or to visit your nanna. You are most likely making this stop on your way home. You don’t strike me as the type to waste money on dead flowers often, you’re smarter than that. So, probably an apology or peace offering. That, and the creak in your neck tells me you’ve been sleeping on the couch. Apologise properly, grovel even if you want to get back in the big bed. I hear jewellery works well too.”

“None of that is any of your business and you can piss of with your advice.” Lestrade said, but with little force. “Neat party trick though.”

“Sorry, just trying to make conversation. People like conversation, I believe.” Sherlock shrugged and then stood on the cigarette butt. He left it there for Mycroft to see, he’d know anyway. He headed back into the house, leaving Lestrade no choice but to follow. 

“Coffee?” Sherlock called back over his shoulder. 

“Please. How did you do that?” Lestrade asked as he trailed behind.

“I don’t know. Just, sort of, happens.” Sherlock said without turning around.

In the kitchen, Sherlock put the kettle on and made the coffee. He tried to ignore the crunch of gravel that announced the arrival of his brother’s car in the courtyard. Lestrade settled onto one of the stools at the breakfast buffet and once Sherlock had pushed a cup across to him, he leant against the bench and focused fully on the detective across from him. 

“You had something to tell me.” Sherlock prompted, hoping to have mystery solved at last. 

“Yes, there has been a development.” Lestrade said. It was then that Mycroft stepped quietly into the room. 

“Smoking again, how disappointing.” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock sighed dramatically and answered Lestrade’s questioning glance. “This is my brother’s house. He’s home apparently.” 

Lestrade sipped his coffee, too distracted by the entrance of a man is an impeccable three-piece suit, to notice that Sherlock had made it to his liking without having to ask how he took it. 

Mycroft took it upon himself to address the policeman since Sherlock was not going to bother with a proper introduction. “Hello, Detective Lestrade. Thank you for bringing Sherlock’s case to a close. I do hope the charges will stick.”

Before Lestrade could express his shock in hearing that the older Holmes knew that an arrest had been made; before he had even had a chance to say anything, Sherlock jumped into the conversation. His voice tinged with disbelief. “You made an arrest?” 

“Yes.” Both Lestrade and Mycroft answered together, but it was Lestrade who continued. “This morning; I put the cuffs on him personally. This afternoon we raided his house, his mother’s home. We found enough evidence to put him away. Still waiting on DNA, of course, but we got him. I’m sure of it.”

Sherlock let the tension drifted out of his shoulders for the first time in days, maybe weeks. He was glad he was off the street. Glad that he couldn’t attack anyone else. 

Conversation ebbed and flowed between the three of them as Mycroft began cooking dinner. They had little in common, and the Holmes brothers were not the most proficient in small talk, so conversation soon came to a pause.

“There is something you should know.” Lestrade went on cautiously. “We found some evidence that indicates that there are other victims. Two of them.”

“Who are they?” Sherlock asked, suddenly on high alert. This information was a total shock to him. 

“We don’t know yet. There are no case files that correlate with the evidence, no missing persons reports that make sense. We will keep looking, but there is a good chance that the victims didn’t report the crime. That they don’t want to make a statement. Happens a lot.”

Sherlock looked away. 

“We will still make the charges stick. Easier to prove one case than three anyway.” Lestrade shrugged. “The things you told me. The things you remembered. They made it so I could find him. It led me every step of the way. Your information and the evidence collected at the hospital will make it so that he doesn’t get a chance to do this again. I’m still amazed at the things you knew about him. Can you do that all the time? Of course, you can. You did it when I arrived. Damn, I wish you were a cop. I could use someone like you on the force. Actually, I really could use someone like you.”

Sherlock was distracted by the revelation of the two other victims, but he was brought back to the moment by Lestrade handing him a business card. He glanced at it confused. 

“Call me when this is all over with, when you feel up to it.” Lestrade said. “If you’re interested in helping on some cases, I could use your help.”

Before Sherlock had a chance to answer Lestrade was grasping his hand in a firm handshake and not a moment later was heading for the front door. 

Sherlock stared at the card for a few minutes, remembering all the times he had tried to convince the police of a detail that could lead them to an arrest. He thought about Sandy Drummond and Michael Meenaghan and Carl Powers. The police never listen to me, even when I’m right, he thought bitterly, as he dumped the card into the rubbish bin. 

Sherlock left the kitchen without a word. He sat in the spot on the couch he had occupied for most of the day. 

He thought about the two men who had experienced the same horror he had. It sat heavy in his stomach to realise that his attacker had done this before. He was frustrated that he hadn’t seen it. How had he missed that? How had he missed it on the man he saw in the bar. He knew he was different somehow but ‘serial rapist’ should have stood out in bold letters. He was angry at himself for missing it. Then he felt angry at the men that hadn’t reported it. Maybe the police could have stopped him if the attacks had been reported. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened to him. Then he felt guilty for being angry because they had been raped too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hated the first incarnation of this chapter. This is brought to you without the help of my lovely beta, because I was in a rush to cover the other poor attempt at a chapter. If there are mistakes please feel free to bring them to my attention. This probably makes a good point of how much she usually helps me to bring you a good product. Thanks for all the love and support you wonderful readers are bringing to this pity party. xx


	11. Mycroft Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have rewritten the previous chapter. I jolly well hated it. It tells the same story, so if you're not inclined to back track you can carry on without a care in the world, but if you'd like to read a much better version it is there in all its glory for your reading pleasure.

Mycroft returned home from work to find an unfamiliar car in the courtyard. He knew at once it was an unmarked police car. Sherlock was in the kitchen deep in discussion with the police officer. It took Mycroft a moment to realise where he had seen the man before. They had crossed paths in the hallway at the hospital the night that Sherlock had been admitted. The policeman had been leaving just as Mycroft had arrived. 

Now both the policeman and Sherlock held cups of coffee and spoke in hushed tones. Sherlock didn’t bother to introduce him when he entered the kitchen, other than to explain to the policeman their family connection. Mycroft was certain that this was because Sherlock was too busy playing the part, acting as if he had this all under control. He was doing a fair job of it to, Mycroft reflected. He most likely had this policeman convinced he was coping perfectly well with his awful situation. He might have had Mycroft convinced too if he hadn’t heard him sobbing into his pillow the night before. 

Of course, Mycroft knew why he was here. He had been checking the police database daily. Today there had been an arrest. The news however was clearly a shock to Sherlock. He really wasn’t himself if he didn’t predict what the detective had come here to tell him. 

Mycroft started to cut up the vegetables he had brought home with him. He planned on making pumpkin soup, figuring that it might be the only way to get some nutrition into his brother. It was mother’s recipe and Sherlock had always seemed to enjoy it. Sherlock was just as likely to decide that, tonight at least, he didn’t like it, but it was worth a try. He listened to the conversation as he pottered around the kitchen. It was a relief that Sherlock’s attacker had been apprehended and Sherlock was visibly relieved as well. Some of the tension visibly drained out of him. That was until the detective explained that they thought there had been other victims. Then Sherlock had gone quiet.

Mycroft saw Lestrade’s gaze flick between the bruises on Sherlock’s neck and wrists when Mycroft mentioned that Sherlock would be staying there until he was healed. Sherlock’s clothing covered almost every other inch of him, he had even buttoned his polo shirt up to the top in a failed effort to hide the bruising on his neck, but Mycroft knew that the policeman would be wondering how serious the other injuries were. In fact, it was something that Mycroft wondered himself. He had been told very little by the hospital staff and even less by Sherlock himself. After the first visit with the surgeon Sherlock had insisted that he leave the room every time a doctor visited. He could have easily accessed the medical files, but he felt that would be a step too far. 

The policeman went into great detail about how helpful Sherlock had been in the process of catching his attacker. Mycroft liked the countenance of this police officer; he had an encouraging and gentle way with Sherlock without being piteous. He offered to allow Sherlock to help on cases in the future. He even grasped Sherlock’s hand before leaving and even more surprisingly, Sherlock accepted the gesture with only the smallest of flinches. I’ll be needing to find out more about this man, Mycroft thought. 

When the policeman left, Sherlock’s act slipped away. He stood up, went to the rubbish bin and dropped something into it and then walked into the other room without a single word. Mycroft finished adding the ingredients to the soup and made sure it was steadily simmering before following Sherlock into the lounge room. Mycroft stopped a few steps inside the door and watched for a moment. Sherlock sat where he had for most of the previous day, the book in his hand, he had almost finished reading it. He remembered Sherlock finishing that same book in a single afternoon. Mycroft wondered if he was just savouring the tale or if he was struggling more with the concussion that he was letting on. Perhaps there were other reasons why he was having trouble focusing. His eyes seemed fixed on one spot on the page and even though Mycroft watched for long minutes he didn’t turn a single page. Just sat unmoving. He looked so uncomfortable; sitting askew so his weight was mostly on one hip. His right knee, the more damaged one, that they had pulled a large chunk of glass out of, was almost straight out in front of him, the other leg curled underneath him. 

Mycroft went to the couch and sat down next to him. Close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. Sherlock barely seemed to notice his presence at first, but eventually he sighed and turned his head slightly towards Mycroft for just one short moment before looking away again. He put the book down on his lap, but otherwise did not move. It was Mycroft’s turn to let out a breath then. It was his move, he knew, the brief glance was all the acknowledgement he was going to get. He made a choice; it was not planned, and he would never know why he thought the moment was right. He wrapped arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and gently drew him closer. He half expected Sherlock to get up and walk away. After a moment of tension, he leaned into the embrace. They sat like that for a long time. No words passed between then, they just sat together, breathed together, grieved together. 

The next day, when Mycroft returned home from work Sherlock was gone. 

Despite using every tactic, he knew of to find a person, he did not see him again until the trial. Out of concern and more than a little desperation, he even tried speaking to the policeman that had visited his home the night Jason Costello had been caught. Detective Greg Lestrade had assured him that he had seen Sherlock once or twice to discuss the case and that he was, in fact, fine. Despite Mycroft’s insistence, he had refused to give up Sherlock’s whereabouts, stating that he thought that would be a betrayal of his trust. That had not helped to put his mind at ease. Detective Lestrade had even gone so far as to suggest that if he was really concerned about Sherlock, he could perhaps report him as a missing person. Mycroft had nearly decided to do just that, if for no other reason than to spite Sherlock for his stupidity. The only thing that stopped him was a single unsolicited text message from Sherlock. It read: Please kindly fuck off, I’m fine. I don’t need you.


	12. Greg Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock turns up at Lestrade's doorstep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mention of suicide. Feel free to make a comment if you would like more details before you proceed with reading.

Lestrade had drunk half a beer and scoffed two slices of cheap frozen pizza that he had reheated in the microwave; too tired and impatient to wait for the oven to heat up. He was considering whether it was worth the effort to stand up to get a third piece of pizza from the kitchen when the doorbell rang. He wished his wife was there to get it, his feet hurt from standing all day. He had spent the day going from door to door looking for witnesses to a domestic violence situation that was likely to become a murder situation if the victim’s condition did not improve over night. He would have loved to have shouted for his wife to answer the door, it was probably for her anyway, but she was away with Rhonda for the weekend. They had gone to college together and once a year, every year, they went away for the weekend to drink and gossip and whatever the hell women do when they are on a girl’s weekend. He sighed deeply. He had no other desire in the world other than to sit on the couch in his pants and watch something mindless, maybe Johnathan Creek or some similar other quaint little detective story where the hero succeeded, there was never any paperwork, and everyone lived happily ever after. 

He waited a long moment, hoping that the person at the door would go away. He had almost decided that they had gone away when the bell’s shrill tone sounded again, three times in quick succession. He dragged himself to his feet, pulling on the pair of jeans he had dumped beside the couch, as he hopped awkwardly on one foot towards the door. 

The peep hole told him that no one was there. His instinct said otherwise. He flipped on the outside light and grasped the heavy candle stick that lived on the table by the door. The one his wife said was ‘aesthetically pleasing’. In reality it was just a spot for them to throw their keys when they came home. He brandished the candle stick it as he cracked the door open. Even with the chain across he was still careful. Cops made enemies without trying and he was yet to meet one that didn’t have a healthy paranoia. 

He still couldn’t see anyone, but the door met resistance before it met the end of the security chain. He looked down and saw someone sprawled against the wall, their legs stopping the door from opening properly. 

“What the blazers?” He muttered. 

A pair drawn and bloodshot eyes looked up from a face that showed just the shadow of bruising. 

“Sherlock?” He recognised the skinny kid with the mop of dark hair instantly.. For a moment he considered slamming the door shut and calling it in. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The figure on the ground shrugged. 

“You hurt?” Lestrade asked, genuinely concerned. He looked as bad as he did the night he found him at the pub. 

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Alright. Budge over, I’ll open the door.” 

Sherlock managed to shift his legs out of the way a little. Lestrade could see that his coordination was severely lacking. He withdrew the door and undid the security chain. 

“You high?”

Sherlock nodded. Lestrade groaned. He was too tired for this.

“Can you stand?”

Again, he shrugged. 

Lestrade swapped the candle stick for his keys. All he could think of was his half-finished beer and his night alone in front of the telly. “Ok, I’m taking you home. You do have a home, right?” 

“I guess.” Sherlock muttered. He didn’t look like he did. His hair was a mess; his clothing was shabby and ill fitting. He looked like he lived on the streets. If Lestrade had not seen him before he would have dismissed him as one of London’s homeless community, not some young academic. Not someone who had a brother with a property that could be classed as a bloody mansion. 

Lestrade helped Sherlock to wobble to his feet, and then manhandled him into his car. He had started the engine before he thought to ask where they were going. 

“Are you still staying with your brother?” 

“No.” Sherlock snapped, but he followed up more softly. “Not there.” 

“Where then?”

“Montague Street.” Sherlock directed him to an apartment that was quite close to The British Museum. Great location Lestrade thought, how the hell was he able to afford this as a student. 

Incapable of making his own way to his door. Lestrade supported Sherlock in much the same way he had the night he was attacked. He was still just as light, perhaps even more so and he could feel his ribs protruding even through his clothing. Lestrade felt guilty for a second time for thinking about how good he felt in his arms. Even with his wife away doing god knows what he couldn’t even admit to himself how attractive he found this young man. Given how they had met he would never dare to act on his feelings. Plus, the kid was out of it. By all rights he should have thrown him in the drunk tank, but he couldn’t bring himself to put him through that. 

At the door he asked for the keys, Sherlock fumbled in the pocket of the light jacket he wore. After a moment he gave up and pointed to his pocket. He shot a goofy smile at Lestrade. 

“Anything sharp in that pocket?” Lestrade asked with resignation. 

Sherlock shook his head. Knowing it was the only way to get inside, Lestrade carefully dug into Sherlock’s pocket to retrieve the keys. the keys to Lestrade. Knowing he couldn’t even get the keys out, let alone line them up with the lock, Lestrade took it upon himself to open the door. He tried two keys before he found the right one. He let the door swing open on its hinges. The top floor apartment was styled in sleek modern furnishings, all clean lines and elegance. It didn’t make sense for it to belong to this bohemian student. 

“Mycroft owns it. He rents it to me at cheaply because he is scared Mummy will be mad at him if she finds out that I sleep on the streets most nights.” Sherlock explained before he could ask. It wasn’t a stretch to assume Mycroft must be the name that belonged to the brother he met a few weeks ago. 

Lestrade helped Sherlock stumble towards the only other room, well the only room other than the one that was clearly a bathroom. There he found a nearly made bed and relatively tide room. At the doorway Sherlock slithered out of his arms, dropped his jacket to the floor and managed to propel himself towards the bed. Lestrade suspected that Sherlock would stop at the nearest side, but he stumbled around the bed to the far side. Lestrade followed, scared he would fall. Imagine filling out that report, he thought with a scoff. How fired would I be then? 

He knelt down and helped Sherlock out of his shoes and into the bed. Neither man worried that he was still fully dressed.

With conflicting emotions, but equally relieved to be out of there and disappointed to be going, Lestrade turned to leave. He had an addictive presence, he thought.

“Stay.” Said a voice that was deeper than should be possible from such a lithe body. “Just until I fall asleep.” 

Lestrade nodded. He could see the kid was hurting. Must be scared shitless after what happened to him. Lestrade went towards the door, intending to fetch a chair from the kitchen.

“The chairs are awful. Just sit on the bed.” Sherlock mumbled into the pillows. 

How the hell did he know? Lestrade just shook his head in wonder and flicking the bedroom light off he perched on the edge of the bed. He kicked his own shoes off and leaned back against the head of the bed. He watched Sherlock as he settled into sleep, wondering what he had taken to make him high enough to turn up on his doorstep and what had prompted it. Jason Costello had been in custody for nearly three weeks. Why today of all days?

“Stop it? I only took a little bit.” 

“Bit of what?” 

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “Some cop you are. Heroin. I ran out of morphine. Now stop thinking.”

“Shit. Fuck. I’m screwed.” 

“How so?” Only Sherlock could manage to sound strung out and posh at the same time.

“They’d fire me if they knew.”

“Well, then don’t tell them.” 

“I guess,” Lestrade said dubiously. “but what…?”

“Shhh, I’m trying to sleep.”

Lestrade rubbed his face with both hands. Light streamed in from the lounge room, but he figured it wouldn’t disturb Sherlock. He was thoroughly out of it. Lestrade was glad that he way lying on his side. Last thing he needed was his choking to death should he vomit. Perhaps it was a good thing that he had asked him to stay for a while.

Lestrade woke sometime later, his neck stiff, Sherlock stumble from the room making a hell of a racket. His first thought was shit, I fell asleep; his second was, where the hell is he going?

He heard retching and then the toilet flush and moments later Sherlock came back into the room. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He said in a voice clearer that it should have been under the circumstances.

“I should go.” Lestrade said. He stood up at the same moment Sherlock sat down. At lease now Sherlock looked like he was sober enough to look after himself. His movements were slow, ginger and deliberate rather than loose and fumbling. 

“Do you have any morphine? Heroin? Anything Class A?”

“No. Why the hell would I have morphine?” 

“You’re a cop, don’t you ever borrow anything?”

“Absolutely not!” Lestrade shouted, alarmed that he would even be accused of such a thing. 

“What good are you?”

“Not much apparently.” He grumbled. “I think I have some aspirin in the car.”

“I think there is some codeine in the bathroom.”

Lestrade took that as a request for him to fetch it. Little chance of a please and thank you around here apparently. He huffed his disgust as he left the room.

He brought it back with a glass of water, that he collected from a kitchen that was hardly discernible from a meth lab, and a packet of codeine with a label for a Sir Harold Mycroft Spencer Holmes. Apparently, Sherlock wasn’t the only one that didn’t use his first name. Lestrade chuckled the thought of their rather odd names. He handed the packet to Sherlock and placed the water on the bedside table. 

“Did you pinch these from your brother?”

“Nope. He left them here. He stays here when he works late sometimes. Don’t worry, he won’t come home, he is in Russia.”

“Fair enough.” Lestrade conceded.

Sherlock opened the box to reveal a nearly empty blister pack. He took the last three capsules from the packet and swallowed then in one gulp. Lestrade picked up the packet, inspecting the details.

“It only recommends you take two.” Lestrade mentioned, concerned. 

“It’s a three-pill problem.” 

Lestrade sighed. Clearly there was no arguing. He could talk his way out of anything. “Still hurts then?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock admitted quietly, touching his cheek. “Headache and broken ribs take forever to heal and… other things.” 

Lestrade realised it cost him something to admit it, that Sherlock saw it as a weakness. “Is that why you took the drugs?”

“Weren’t you leaving?” Sherlock asked, turning his back on the detective. 

“You were the one that came to me, remember? There must have been a reason.” Lestrade sat on the bed in protest at the suggestion that he leave. He wanted answers. 

“I found them.” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible. 

“Who did you find?” 

“The other two victims.” 

“Both of them?” Lestrade instantly thought of the three shirts they had found in Jason Costello’s garden shed. The original owners of two of those shirts had not yet been found, despite the best efforts from the Metropolitan Police Force. “When? How?”

“Today.” Sherlock said, then realising that it was past midnight. “Yesterday. It was easy. I don’t know how you lot managed to not find them.”

“Great. They might be able to help make a case against…”

“They won’t be helping.” Sherlock snapped. 

“Oh.” Lestrade let the silence stretch until Sherlock was ready to explain.

“The first one, he says he doesn’t remember anything, isn’t even sure what happened. Woke up in a park with a hangover and only the vaguest sense of the assault. Says he didn’t see who did it. Says he’s moved on. Told me not to contact him again. The other one, he was scared. The attack had been more violent than the first one. He is escalating with each attack, more violence, less drugs. He could remember some of it, he denied it but, I could tell. He said he couldn’t go through it again, couldn’t talk about it, not to the police, not in court. He didn’t want anyone to know what had happened. He hadn’t even been to see a doctor, he had… medical issues but he couldn’t face up to it. His life was a mess. He hardly left the house anymore. I left him my phone number in case he changed his mind. He sent me this message a few hours later. It was his note.” Sherlock went and got his phone out of his jacket and passed it to Lestrade. 

The message read: You are so much stronger than me. I can’t do this. I can’t handle the pain anymore. I can’t handle feeling ashamed anymore. I can’t handle knowing that anyone else knows. That has made it all worse. I’m sorry this happened to you too. I hope he rots in hell. Please don’t let my family be the ones who find me.

“I went straight back when I got that. Called the cops on the way. He was in the back yard. He tied the rope to a tree. We were too late.” 

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. At least he understood why he had bombed himself out on heroin. 

“It’s not your fault.”

“He probably would have done it anyway. Eventually. Maybe not, I’ll never know, but it wouldn’t have been today.” 

Lestrade laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was all the comfort he had to offer.


	13. Sherlock Holmes

To the other patients who awaited their appointments he must have looked calm and composed. Fingertips lightly touching, legs crossed, face placid; he waited for his name to be called. He didn’t feel so calm though as he waited for his final results, results that would tell him if life would go on as normal or be changed forever. He resisted the urge to fidget as his nerves jangled. Three children bickered over a wooden puzzle while their mother hissed at them to be quiet. An elderly man coughed up globs of phlegm into a pile of tissues. The urge to flee was strong, but that would be pointless. He’d just have to make another appointment and go through the whole process again. 

His appointment had been scheduled for 15 minutes ago. He stopped his foot from tapping. Planted it on the floor next to the other one. Another patient was called, but not by his doctor. The previous round of testing had indicted a slight raise in antibodies that had caused his doctor to show some concern. His was more concerned than he let on though. Being able to read a person was a curse as often as not. He said all the reassuring things. That it didn’t mean anything alone. The other tests were promising. That his general ill health since the attack could explain a difference in the antibody readings. Sherlock knew what the real concern was - HIV. All the other sexually transmitted infections were a doddle compared to that one. He told himself it would only affect his body. What did that matter? His mind wouldn’t cease to function. It was very treatable these days. Despite this, his palms sweated, and he was rapidly getting short of breath while he waited. He shouldn’t care this much. 

He looked at his watch again. Only moments had passed. 

False positives were possible. They happened from time to time. The testing was done early, very early. From day one. Too early perhaps, to show up anything. False negatives were common, especially in the window period. 

An elderly lady shuffled in through the sliding doors. Her walking frame clicking on the linoleum floor. He watched her make her way to the reception desk. He knew at a glance she had three grandchildren and a cat; her husband had passed away within the least year. 

He sighed. What was taking so long? He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Even three months after the attack, the ribs that had been broken still twinged if he twisted the wrong way. He still got headaches too. He suspected that he would have one by the time he got home. 

For the first four weeks after the assault he had taken antivirals, a course of routine post exposure prophylaxis that had left him nauseated and exhausted most of the time. Initially he had thought they were symptoms of his injuries or a physiological reaction to his emotional response, but he came to realise that the course of medication made him feel rotten. He never missed a dose. 

His head snapped up when his doctor appeared. 

“Richard Clark?” He called quietly across the room. 

Dr. Bennison, a tall middle-aged, left-handed man, whose colour told of his mother’s Indian heritage, glanced at Sherlock as he scanned the room for his next patient. He gave a smile that Sherlock couldn’t read. Was it a good sign that he smiled? Or was he just being kind because he had bad news? Was it just an acknowledgment? Damn it, he was over thinking. 

He wanted to pace, to move but he knew it would be conspicuous. He stood and went to a low table that was littered with outdated magazines. He took the first one back to his chair. He flicked it open. The glossy photos advertised perfume and sensational articles discussed in depth the details of Princess Dianna’s death, again. The inquest, apparently announced shortly before the publication, prompting another round of media intrigue. He mentally listed all the facts he knew they had gotten wrong. Information he probably shouldn’t have been aware of, didn’t officially know. Mycroft did make for an interesting source occasionally. 

One of the children that played by the toy box in the corner loosed a wind up car. It silently rocketed across the floor and hit the toe of Sherlock’s shoe. The child running after the car, and not looking where he was going smacked into Sherlock’s shin just a moment later, causing the child to sit down heavily. 

The unexpected double impact jarred his nerves and caused him to drop the magazine with a start. He barely stopped the profanity that threatened to break free. The child’s mother was scooping up the fallen child and apologising profusely. 

Sherlock nodded and smiled at her. Knowing it looked more like a grimace but unable to school his features. The skin on his neck prickled. He looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes he’d sat there waiting. What was the point of making an appointment? Calling it a queue would, at least, be accurate. He bent down to pick up the magazine but left the offending toy vehicle beneath his chair.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Finally.” He muttered. He stood up abruptly, in a rush to get this over with. A moment of dizziness almost sat him back down, but he surged forward, throwing the magazine back on the table as he passed. It smacked onto the table, the noise loud in the silent waiting room. Aware of staring eyes he followed Dr. Bennison along a short hall and into a room that smelled of antiseptic and cinnamon. The doctor gestured to a chair as he sat at the computer desk. 

“Test results.” He began at once. Sherlock was grateful for the missed formalities. “Right, I glanced at them before you popped in. It all looks good. All the readings are normal, the antibody readings that were high last time have returned to normal. I’m very happy to tell you that you are HIV negative.” 

The doctor gave him an easy smile. Sherlock didn’t know how to respond. He was relieved but unprepared for the good news. He had convinced himself that it would be bad news, there had been little room for hope in his mind. He struggled to catch up, to rewrite his immediate future. One that did not involve lifelong medication and fear. 

He behaved as he thought would be expected. He smiled as convincingly as he could, thanked the doctor, answered his remaining questions on autopilot, paid his bill and left.


	14. Sherlock Holmes

He had been high for days, and God, he was so bored. Even the cocaine wasn’t taking the edge off. Uni was over, and what a joke that had been. His last class was just days before the trial began. They had let him complete the course, granting him a dispensation for having missed so many classes while he was in hospital. Even with the special consideration they would not let him sit the physics test he had missed the day after the attack. Stating that he had not informed them of his absence in time. In truth, Mycroft was right, they did not want a dux with his record and that was their power play to prevent him from getting the accolades. Sherlock found that the satisfaction of knowing that Mycroft was disappointed in him was enough for him to revel in their decision. In a way it was a relief, to be honest; it gave him an excuse to stop trying. His mother was confused when he told her he wouldn’t be going to the graduation ceremony. 

“What about the awards?” She had asked him

“There aren’t any.” He had told her plainly.

“But Mycroft got loads of awards.”

“Yes, well he is a lot smarter than me.” 

She had looked at him suspiciously. She knew that he was keeping something from her. She always knew, even if she didn’t know what it was, she knew something was up.

He had been offered a research position at a rival university. They had seen his grades but not his behaviour. He lasted three months before they cancelled the project, stating that the funding had been dropped. He’d had four jobs since then and he was sick of pretending, sick of trying to fit the mould. Not that he was afraid of hard work, but there were few jobs for graduate chemists and regular employment was not for him. Managers were idiots. Customers were, in fact, almost never right. Employers frowned on him turning up high, even though he could still do their jobs better than they could. He hated all of it. 

Mycroft had put a hold on all his bank accounts since he had ‘gone missing,’ Mycroft’s words not his. Mycroft thought it would flush him out, make him go running back to big brother for help. That was never going to happen, but he needed a job, his own job. One that he was in control of. He’d tried dealing a few years ago, but Mycroft had had him locked up for three days, so that was out. He didn’t want to risk having to see his meddling brother and jail was boring. He needed to do something, or he would go insane or broke, which ever came first. 

He pulled his coat tightly around himself intending to go out into the cold night and see if he could score a hit from one of his regulars, the kind of hit that wiped your memory for days. Maybe he could take just a bit too much; it would be so easy to just slip away into the haze of narcotics. It would solve a lot of problems, he thought as he forced his hands deep into his jacket pockets to hide then from the icy evening air. His fingers toyed with the coins and debris that lurked in those deep pockets. It started to drizzle as he walked down the street, and he wondered if he had enough coins to pay for the bus. He piled the contents of his pockets into his palm. Three pounds in coins, three loose cigarettes, a pebble, a business card and a dried flower came out of the first pocket. 

Strange, he thought, flipping the business card over to see who it was for. ‘Detective Sergeant G. Lestrade.’ the card read. 

He had not seen Lestrade since the trial. His body had been healed by then. The bruises gone, as were the stitches and the bandages. He felt well and energetic again, except his shoulder still hurt when he played his violin and when he practiced too many taekwondo forms. Lestrade had sat in the docks most days. It had been comforting to have a familiar face there. Mycroft had not bothered to show up very often. 

Sherlock had expected that he would receive some heat from the defence, but he had not been expecting the character assassination that went with being a victim in the court system. They had grilled him on everything from his history of drug use, to his sexuality, to his university grades. As if any of that had a bearing on the attack. The defence lawyer even went so far as to suggest that Sherlock must have been a willing party because someone with his taekwondo skill set should have been able to fight off a single attacker. Yet it was Sherlock they threatened to hold in contempt of court for pointing out the stupidity of that statement. That was not the only time they threatened to hold him in contempt. The whole process was revolting. 

It might have gone the perpetrator’s way too if it hadn’t been for the video evidence. Thankfully it was shown to a closed court, including only the judge, jury, defendant, defence lawyer, the prosecution team, Sherlock and, for some reason Sherlock did not entirely understand, Detective Sergeant Lestrade. This, at least, spared Sherlock a room full of people witnessing it, and more importantly, his brother. He had warned Mycroft from the beginning not to watch the CCTV footage. Sherlock hoped that he had heeded his request, but knowing Mycroft, he had probably done whatever he had felt like doing. Sherlock had been glad for the closed court though; he knew that watching it in his brother’s presence would have been too much. Watching it had been surreal enough, the empty court room, too quiet without the murmur and rustle that dozens of people created, even when they were still and silent. The video had no sound and nobody watching it moved or spoke. For many of the jury members it was the first time they had witnessed any such violence. The video had had to be paused, shortly after it had shown Sherlock being thrown to the ground, so that one of the jurors, a middle-aged woman, could excuse herself. Sherlock suspected she had left to throw up, judging by her watery eyes and the smell of spearmint gum when she returned. Despite it being the first time he had seen the video, Sherlock had no such physiological reaction, but he still found watching it nearly impossible. If his attacker had not been in the room, he might have let it show but he refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how he was affected by it. 

Jason Costello had shown no such respect, the video clearly affected him, but in different ways. To Sherlock, if not the jury, it was obvious how aroused he was by it. Breathing fast and cuffed hands held over his crotch in a feeble attempt to hide his erection. Sherlock had wanted to leave the court then and never come back. Instead he had sat stone still and turned his eyes back to the video. It was easier to watch than Jason’s hungry eyes flicking back and forth between him and the video. 

Sherlock knew he was watching himself on the screen, but it was like watching the attack happen to someone else. He was aware, even in that moment, that that kind of disassociation was a protective mechanism. The grainy image on the screen could not express how he had felt at the time of the attack, nor every day since. The fear and disgust and shame. It did show the physicality of the attack, he was thrown about like a rag doll. For the first time he could see how futile his fight had been and how overpowered he was. It was disturbing to watch, still, it did help to explain how some his injuries had occurred. 

As awful as watching it had been, Sherlock had been thankful for its existence. The jury had not warmed to him and he knew it. They did not like his impassive stare or his detached way of recounting the attack. It was the video evidence along with the physical evidence they collected at the hospital and the shirt found in the garden shed that made the case a no brainer for the jury. What the jury could not see was that behind Sherlock’s stone hard eyes and still features was the storm that raged there. His heart thrummed in his chest and he felt faint and glittery every time he was called to the stand. His skin crawled under the gaze of his attacker, which constantly changed from predatory to seething. He could handle the juror’s contempt as long as his attacker did not see any weakness, so he kept every emotion in check. All the while Lestrade sat in the gallery; a still calm presence in the chaotic court room. 

Sherlock had not gone to court the day after the CCTV footage had been shown. He knew he was not required, and he could not face another day of sitting in the presence of his remorseless attacker. After the video had been shown and everyone excused for the day, Sherlock he had gone home. He had trained form after form in his lounge room. Then, soaked in sweat and chilled to the bone and feeling as filthy as he had the night he was attacked, he had sat in the bath hugging his knees to his chest until the water had gone cold. Still fully dressed, unable to face the sight of his naked body. He had decided in that moment as he shivered that he would take up boxing. Having another way to defend himself was necessary, he decided. In the end he had stepped out of the tub, dripping across the floor to turn the lights off before stripping in the dark and scrubbing himself clean. He had gone to bed with a needle in his arm and had slept until lunchtime.

Sherlock flipped over the card again. Such an innocent thing this small white card, but a lot of memories came with it. He didn’t want to think about most of them. That night at the bar had changed him forever. He kept the memories locked away, too scared to visit them, but that night had also made him realise how strong he was; how strong he could be. He could be broken but he could also reform. It made him realise that, though there were terrible people in the world, there were also people who are kind when they have no reason to be. One of them had given him this card. It had a desk line printed on it and also a hand-written mobile number above that, pressed deeply with a ball point pen to mark the shiny paper. He had thrown the card in the bin. He was sure he had. Positive. How did it get into his coat pocket? 

He turned the card over again, and again. Pondering. Lestrade had been impressed by what he had remembered, the lines he had drawn between observation and reality. Lestrade had said he could use someone like Sherlock to help out. Was he lying? Just being nice because he felt sorry for him? Sherlock hated pity. The detective had shown little of that though. Should he see if he needed help now? That wouldn’t be boring.

He typed the mobile number into his phone without processing what he was doing. It rang, once, twice, he panicked and went to hang up.


	15. Greg Lestrade

“Lestrade.” He snapped into his phone. Not the most polite way of saying hello but be had just caught hell off his supervisor and he was I no mood to talk to anyone. Their solve rate was on the floor and they had just been given an impossible task. He had no idea how a woman could die in a sauna; well, he had a bunch of ideas but none of them helped with why she had died of hypothermia. Was that even possible? Fricking hell. He had no idea how to pull this off. He had finally convinced them to give him a gig on homicide and now he couldn’t solve a bloody dog napping if he tried. 

“Hello.” He said into the phone when there was no reply from the other end. More silence greeted him. “I don’t have time for this shit.” He said, as he reached for the end button. 

“My name is Sherlock Homes.” He heard faintly and then more loudly as he put the phone back to his ear. “You probably don’t remember me.”

Of course, he did, how could he forget the tall thin genius who had endured a ruthless attack, and the court case that followed? Sherlock had turned up on the first day of proceedings fully healed and wearing a bespoke suit. He would have sworn that suit cost more than the lounge suite his wife just insisted they buy, but he had to concede that it was worth every cent. The way he looked in that suit did things to Lestrade. Things he didn’t allow himself to think about.

The day they had watched to CCTV footage had been one of the worst days in his living memory. Strangely, it had hardly seemed to affect Sherlock. He had sat through it looking bored. He had hardly even reacted when he noticed that his attacker, a thoroughly disgusting man, was barely able to contain his arousal at watching the footage. Only a brief crinkle at the top of Sherlock’s nose showed his disgust. Lestrade had wanted to throw up, one of the jurors had. Sherlock had not been in court the day after though and this had made Lestrade wonder if it had affected him more than he had shown. That nose crinkle was one of the biggest reactions he had had throughout the trial, with the exception of rudely pointing out the mistakes made by either side until the judge threatened to have him held in contempt of court. The rest of the time Sherlock had sat with perfect posture and poise and smooth features. Even when he had given evidence, he had remained unmoved by the words that he said and the frankly horrible things the defence had thrown at him. He was such a mystery. 

When he did return to the court room, two days after the video evidence was shown, he must have arrived early. When he had arrived; Lestrade had not initially seen him. Only after getting himself settled, had he looked about, hoping to see Sherlock enter. He was already sitting in the back row, in the far corner of the room. Lestrade had pondered for a moment as to what to do. This was the first time that they had both sat in the gallery, up until now one, or both of them had been giving evidence. He wondered if he should sit with him. He seemed so alone. Lestrade had only seen his brother there a couple of times and despite all his concerns about Sherlock before the trial he had not seen them even acknowledge each other. Surely, even Sherlock Bloody Holmes, the worlds most composed rape victim would like some kind of support. He moved then. Sitting down next to Sherlock with nothing more than a nod and a hello. Not sure if he was welcome, not sure if Sherlock would move away. 

Sherlock barely acknowledged him, but he did not move away. The next day it was Lestrade who had arrived first. Sherlock slide into the seat beside him before Lestrade had even noticed him enter. He could move with such stealth and speed now that his body was healed. He never said a word that day either. The day after was the same, except Sherlock brought coffee for them both. Still they sat in silence, but now it felt like companionships. 

This was their routine and it continued for the remainder of the trial. Until the final day, while the jury was deciding the guilt or innocence of Jason Costello. This time they stood outside Old Bailey chain smoking and drinking coffee. Coffee that Lestrade had brought. He, unlike Sherlock, had needed to ask his preference for how he took his coffee. The jury seemed to take forever to come to a decision; Lestrade wondered if Sherlock’s dismissive countenance had worked against him. The evidence was airtight, but Lestrade had seen enough cases to know that the victim was on trial as much as the criminal, especially in cases where a male victim was involved. Prejudice, especially from male jurors was common. They never said as much, but Lestrade was sure a mixture of underlying homophobia and fear was to blame for this phenomenon. 

Finally, the jury had returned, and the gallery filed in with people. There was a hum of anticipation in the air. Sherlock and Lestrade took their place in the back row. They stood respectably as the judge entered, then sat again. Sherlock sat still and tall with his palms braced on his knees. When the judge began addressing the jury Lestrade gripped Sherlock’s forearm. It hadn’t been a conscious decision. The nervous tension was too much for him to bear. While he had expected Sherlock to have as impassive a reaction to the end of the trial as he had to the rest of the proceedings, he himself was not capable of such emotional control. As it turned out neither was Sherlock. Despite Sherlock’s outward calm, Lestrade had been able to feel the tension in his arm. It had been as if there was a current of electricity running thought him. He was jittery and tense. Lestrade’s first thought had been that the tension was a reaction to his touch. He thought Sherlock might pull away, but he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t relaxed either. Lestrade wondered if he had been like that throughout the whole trial, surely, he was not that good an actor, but when he looked at his face he looked as calm as ever. Even when the guilty verdict had been announced Sherlock had not moved. When Lestrade had looked over at him to smile Sherlock had not returned his gaze. Staring straight ahead, he nodded once, mumbled ‘thank you’ so softly Lestrade had barely heard it. Lestrade suspected he did not often say those words to anyone. Then Sherlock got to his feet and walked away before the sentencing date was even set. That was the last Lestrade had seen of him. Last, he had ever expected to see of him.

“Yeah, course I remember.” Lestrade said with a smile, then concern crept into his voice. “Are you ok?”

“Fine. Have you got anything for me?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade’s brain stumbled to catch up, and then remembered the card he had given him. Remembered the invitation to help on cases. “What? Like a case? You want to help out on a case?” 

“Yes, do keep up. You said I should get in touch, that you could use a man like me.”

“That I could. I’ve got a real strange one. You busy?” Lestrade huffed a laugh, this could be very good timing. 

“Not a bit.”

“Good because I have no idea how someone could die of hypothermia in a sauna. You?”

“Sure, four, no five ideas, but I’ll need more data to narrow it down.”

“Wow, umm ok. Do you ever eat anything? I’m starving and you always looked like you could use a feed. I’ll fill you in while we eat.”

“Where?”

“I know a place; the food is good, plus I like to keep an eye on the owner, he is up to something. You like Italian food?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming on this journey with me. To the commenters, the kudosers and the lurkers, I appreciate you all. Special thanks to Sandrina for improving my little story and making it so you didn't have to cringe through all my typos. 
> 
> If you liked this and you are looking for something to read now that this story is over, I have a few others that you might enjoy. Go and read I knew it was over, it's my most neglected story, show it some love. 
> 
> Thank you all!


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